Through the fine autumn weather I enjoyed my retirement.

I had taken plenty of books and magazines with me to while away the time; there was a lovely promenade along the sea-wall on which the tall tower stood, and I could walk there for hours without my pulse being disturbed by visions of parasols, loves of bonnets, and pretty faces under them.

I communed with the sea.

I told it my rations were too salt; that I didn't like the odor of the oil in filling the lamps; that my legs got tired going up to the lantern, and that my arms gave out polishing the lenses.

I also confided to it that I would not mind these little trifles if I only had one being to share my solitude--a modest, shy little creature that I wouldn't be afraid to ask to be my wife.
"Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean far off and alone." I'd forget the curse of my life and be happy in spite of it.
When winter shut down, however, I didn't talk quite so much to the sea; it was ugly and boisterous, and the windy promenade was dangerous, and I shut myself up and pined like the "Prisoner of Chillon." I have lots of spunk and pride, if I am bashful; and so I never let on to those at home--when I sent them a letter once in two months by the little tug that brought my oil and provisions--that I was homesick.