The Americans living in the midst of these mysteries are rather proud of the ghosts they never see, but have to put up with the haunting guard still ministering to the gods that dwelt in the shrines where the shadows of extinct volcanoes fall, long before the masterful missionaries planted their first steps in the high places.
After twenty-two days' steaming from San Francisco--Queen's Hospital time not counted--we were directly south of China's Yellow Sea, and within a few hours of sighting the isle of Luzon.
Only at Honolulu, all the way from San Francisco, was there a sail or a smoke not of a vessel of the Philippine expedition.

All the long days and nights the eye swept the horizon for companionship, finding only that of our associates in adventure, and very little of them.

Even the birds seem to shrink from the heart of the watery world spread between America and Asia; and the monsters of the deep are absent.

One day, about a thousand miles from California, a story spread of a porpoise at play, but the lonely creature passed astern like a bubble.

Bryant sang of the water fowl that flew from zone to zone, guided in certain flight on the long way over which our steps are led aright, but the Pacific zones are too broad for even winged wanderers.