raisins and olives and Yankee cheese and Boston crackers and coffee and cigars, and I don't know what else besides. There were a couple of carefully-treasured bottles of Moselle produced from the little receptacle under my bunk, and some madeira and sherry from the same place.
A BIRTHDAY DINNER. The only dish that was purely local in its character was a mayonnaise of frozen venison (raw) thinly sliced and dressed in the open air. It was very crisp, but its merits were not duly appreciated. The "Bill" wound up thus:—"Music on the fiddle by Knorr. Song, 'We won't go home till mornin',' by the mess. Original 'yarns' always in order, but 'Joe Millers' forbidden on penalty of clearing out the 'fire-hole' for the balance of the night."
I left the party two hours ago in unrestrained enjoyment of the evening. And right good use do they appear to be making of the occasion. The whole ship's company seem to be like Tam O'Shanter,—
"O'er a' the ills o' life victorious,"
without, however, so far as I can discover, any thing of the cause which led to that renowned individual's satisfactory state of mind. The sailors are following up their feast with a lively dance, into which they have forced Marcus and Jacob; while the officers, like true-born Americans, are making speeches. At this moment I hear some one proposing the health of "The Great Polar Bear."
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