Old turtles, with large eyes, poked their heads up out of the sea as I sang "Johnny Boker," and "We'll Pay Darby Doyl for his Boots," and the like.

But the porpoises were, on the whole, vastly more appreciative than the turtles; they jumped a deal higher.

One day when I was humming a favorite chant, I think it was "Babylon's a-Fallin'," a porpoise jumped higher than the bowsprit.
Had the _Spray_ been going a little faster she would have scooped him in.

The sea-birds sailed around rather shy.
July 10, eight days at sea, the _Spray_ was twelve hundred miles east of Cape Sable.

One hundred and fifty miles a day for so small a vessel must be considered good sailing.