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June 25.—Seventy-five miles southeast of Bering Strait. The Alaskan mainland north of Norton Sound in plain view. Have spent five days trying to get around St. Lawrence. Are still in sight of the east end. It is calm. We need more wind. Entered Boring Sea two weeks ago, and the days have been like a yachting cruise. Everyone is in good spirits. Several of the boys are witty and jokes fly. And the singing!—we exhaust the words we know and then make up as we go along, like plantation negroes. Are playing several tournaments in games. Only one so far has been concluded—the domino game. Dr. Coffin and Jett were the unlucky ones, and last night they entertained the crowd. Captain was master of ceremonies and dressed in a most ludicrous manner. He made a mock speech and read a poem. The two unlucky victims were treated to burnt cork and wore great Eskimo muckluks (sealskin boots), murre-skin hats, and red calico decorations. Doctor beat the big tin washpan and Jett blew the foghorn. The captain's wand was a boat-hook with a shining red onion on the tip and bearing a red pasteboard banner with the motto. "On to Kotzebue." They were to march fifty times around the deck. Casey, our Irishman, was appointed policeman by the captain "to keep the small boys and the carriages off the street." And so, to the tune of the foghorn and the dish-pan, they tramped their penalty. Then the captain gave an exhibition of clog dancing, with a fife and harmonica accompaniment. So one can see there is always something going on to break the monotony and keep the blues away. We suffer little from dull times. Whales are now as common as seals. One we saw looked as large as the "Penelope." Clyde took its picture. I got out our Winchester to-day. Am on the lookout for polar bears, which are expected to frequent the ice packs. The cook has just yelled "Supper!" and everyone is singing "Beulah Land."