We're bound for Unalaska And we do not care who squeals But mend your pace a little And show the east your heels But in your waltzing with old Neptune Don't forget the hours of meals Don't forget the hours of meals I'm sure you have no notion How dreadful bad it feels! Push onward into Bering And hasten to the seals One glance upon their harems Then take unto your heels More steam into your boilers More vigor in your wheels But in flirting with the billows Oh regard the hours of meals Do regard the hours of meals. If in this we are exacting Please remember how it feels. We're bound for Arctic waters And for the midnight sun Then quicken your propeller And your pace into a run We'll touch at lone Siberia To take a polar bear Then hie away through Bering Straits And more frigid regions dare But in all thy wild cavorting Oh don't forget our prayer A noble task's before us And we'll do it ere we go We'll cut the Arctic circle And take the thing in tow And put it round the Philippines And cool 'em off with snow. Our boys will hail our coming, But a chill will seize the foe. And we'll end the war in triumph Go you homeward fast or slow. Kadiak, July 2, 1899. Though this was a delightful trip, one might say, an ideal trip, he was homesick, sea sick, and, as he says of himself, of all the party the most ignorant, the most untravelled, the most silent. It was a new experience to him, this going with a crowd. I know he often spoke of the expedition's cheer, and how they would all give it when they came into stations-- Who are we! Who are we! We're the Harriman, Harriman H. A. E.! H. A. E.! and "how the people would stare at us!" Father said. He liked it, this jolly comradeship and crowd spirit, but it was new to him, almost painfully new, and though no one had more human sympathy, more tenderness and understanding with human weaknesses and shortcomings, no one had less of the crowd spirit. As he said, he kept aloof--not from aloofness but from embarrassment and shyness. Later he overcame most of this and was able to face a crowd or an audience with composure and sureness. With this picture in mind another is recalled, one of him here at Riverby on summer days, scraping corn to make corn cakes. With an armful of green corn that he had picked, I can see him seated and with one of Mother's old aprons tucked under his beard. He would carefully cut down the rows of kernels and then with the back of a knife would scrape the milk of the corn into a big yellow bowl. He would hold the white ears in his brown hands and deftly cut each row, a look of composure and serenity in his eyes. He could eat his share of the cakes, too, and I like to think of those summer days. That fall he wrote from Slabsides: Nov. 30, 1899 MY DEAR JULIAN,