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* * * * *
TAKING A SIGHT AT RINGANDKNOCK.
(_BY RUDDIER STRIPLING._)
After the roughness of the Atlantic, in which to my taste there is far
too much water moving about, I stepped on to America with considerable
relief. I was quite satisfied, after that excellent dinner, the first
I had enjoyed since Liverpool slid away eastward, to walk aimlessly
through the streets till I fell into the arms of a broad-shouldered,
pug-nosed, Irish New York policeman. I remember no more till New York
passed away on a sunny afternoon, and then I fell asleep again and
slept till the brakeman, conductor, Pullman-car conductor, negro
porter and newsboy somehow managed to pull me out into the midnight
temperature of 80 below freezing. It was just like having one's head
put under the pump, but it did not quite revive me, for I mistook
my host in his sleigh for a walrus, and tried to harpoon him with my
umbrella. After matters had been explained, we went off, at least I
did, and never woke up till I fell out into a snow-drift, just as we
turned a corner at our journey's end.
[Illustration: "Ta-ra-ra-Boom!"]
In the morning, I had some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and
that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet
or wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them,
whatever that may mean, till my head ached.
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