Page:Following the Equator (Mark Twain).djvu/332



RIDAY, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p. m., in the Mararoa. Summer seas and a good ship—life has nothing better. Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous Mediterranean blue One lolls in a long chair all day under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. One does not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading the poems of Mrs., again, and I find in them the same grace and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since. "The Sentimental Song Book" has long been out of print, and has been forgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with me always—it and deathless story Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the  has, and I find in it the same subtle touch—the touch that makes an intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny. In her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer of Michigan," and was best known by that name. I have read her book through twice to-day, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has most merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power, "William Upson" may claim first place: (324)