and at length the desired haven, a sheltered nook, with fine cliffs, seaweed-covered rocks, and deep, clear water, was reached, and a dozen strong lines, with heavy sinkers, put out. The sea was bountiful: in a couple of hours enough fish were caught to furnish a capital lunch for all. A camp was formed on the beach, a large fire of driftwood lighted, and sundry hampers unpacked, from which the necks of bottles had protruded suspiciously. It was an _al fresco_ picnic by the seaside. The sky was blue, the weather was delightful, “and all went merry as a marriage bell.” Later, while some wandered to a distance and bathed and swam, others clambered over the hills, among the flowers and waving wild oats for which the country is celebrated. Then, as evening drew on, preparations were made for a return to the city, and “All aboard” was the signal, for the wind was freshening. All remained on deck, for there was an abundance of overcoats and rugs, and shortly the passing schooners and yachts could hear the strains of minstrelsy from a not altogether incompetent choir, several of the ladies on board being musically inclined. The sea gives rise to thoughts of the sea. The reader may be sure that “The Bay of Biscay,” “The Larboard Watch,” “The Minute Gun,” and “What are the Wild Waves saying?” came among a score of others. Meantime, the wind kept freshening, but all of the number being well accustomed to the sea, heeded it not. Suddenly, in the midst of one of the gayest songs, a squall struck the vessel, and as she was carrying all sail, put her nearly on her beam-ends. So violent was the shock, that most things movable on deck, including the passengers, were thrown or slid to the lower side, many boxes and baskets going overboard. These would have been trifles, but alas, there is something sadder to relate. As one of the men was helping to take in sail, a great sea dashed over the vessel and threw him overboard, and for a few seconds only, his stalwart form was seen struggling in the waves. Ropes were thrown to, or rather towards him, an empty barrel and a coop pitched overboard, but it was hopeless— “That cry is ‘Help!’ where no help can come, For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,” and he disappeared in an “ocean grave,” amid the mingled foam and driving spray. No more songs then; all gaiety was quenched, and many a tear-drop clouded eyes so bright before. The vessel, under one small sail only (the jib), drove on, and in half an hour broke out of obscurity and mist, and was off the wharfs and lights of San Francisco in calm water. The same distance had occupied over four hours in the morning. In the Mediterranean every wind has its special name. There is the searching north wind, the _Grippe_ or _Mistral_, said to be one of the scourges of gay Provence— “La Cour de Parlement, le Mistral et la Durance, Sont les trois fléaux de la Provence.”