3, 1849.
MY DEAR SQUIB:--I imagine your pathetic inquiry
as to my whereabouts--pathetic, not to say
hypothetic--for I am now where I cannot hear the
dulcet strains of your voice. I am on board ship.
I am half seas over. I am bound for California
by way of the Isthmus. I am going for the gold,
my boy, the gold. In the mean time I am lying
around loose on the deck of this magnificent
vessel, the _Mercy G. Tarbox,_ of Nantucket, bred by
_Noah's Ark_ out of _Pilot-boat,_ dam by _Mudscow_ out
of _Raging Canawl._ The _Mercy G. Tarbox_ is one of
the best boats of Nantucket, and Captain Clearstarch
is one of the best captains all along shore--although,
friend Squibob, I feel sure that you
are about to observe that a captain with a name
like that would give any one the blues. But
don't do it, Squib! Spare me this once.
But as a matter of fact this ultramarine joke of
yours is about east. It was blue on the _Mercy
G.--_mighty blue, too. And it needed the inspiring
hope of the gold I was soon to pick up in nuggets
to stiffen my back-bone to a respectable degree
of rigidity.
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