I have said that this was Saturday. In the evening my schoolmates came in. I did not betray my feelings. One of them said, “You look as happy as if you had just returned from a voyage.” On the following day my parents and I attended service as usual, in the Bethel. This little church was founded especially for sailors and was located on what was named “Johnny Cake Hill.” It still stands, looking just as it did sixty years ago. On the walls of the interior are cenotaphs erected to those who lost their lives on the deep. These had never interested me, but this morning, surrounded by sailors and realizing that this was my last Sunday at home, I thought of the perils in store for me as I read the following:— In Memory of Capt. William Swain Associate Master of the Christopher Mitchell of Nantucket This Worthy Man after Fastening to a whale Was Carried Overboard by the Line and Drowned May 19th 1844 In the 49th Yr. of his Age Be Ye Also Ready, for in Such an Hour as Ye Think Not the Son of Man Cometh The ship was at her anchorage in the lower harbor. In a few days came the hour of departure. Hitherto I had thought little about parting with my mother. Now the thought of it was distressing and the actual leave-taking heart-breaking. My parents had provided me with a sea chest which was better looking and more costly than that of the average sailor. My father accompanied me to the wharf, where we found a large gathering, composed of sailors and their friends, who had come to bid them good-by. My father showed much feeling in his parting words, and like most fathers, he enjoined obedience, faithful discharge of duty and exemplary habits. The realization of the life upon which I was about to enter came upon me with full force. My chest and I were taken aboard of a large catboat, and, as we slipped away, I saw my father standing on the wharf and was not conscious of the presence of any one else. An incident added to my discomfiture. Among all the chests mine was the most noticeable, and this fact elicited unkind remarks from some of my companions. “It’s a boy’s box,” said one. “Full of baby’s things,” observed another. “Call it a fancy chest,” remarked a third. “Call the young chap himself, ‘Fancy Chest,’” cried a fourth. “So we will,” they exclaimed. Then one of the men scraped his feet along the chest as if to remove the paint. Immediately a large, powerfully built man thundered, “Take your feet off that box, and all of you let the young fellow alone.”