for not having been cleaned up so as to give the go of the fine lines.  The China had been in the habit of making sixty miles a day more than of this trip, burning less than 100 tons of coal.  As we climbed in the ladder of the parallels of latitude, we began to notice a crispness in the air, and it was lovely to the lungs.  It was a pleasure, and a stimulant surpassing wine, to breathe the north temperate ozone again, and after a while to catch a frosty savor on the breeze.  We had forgotten, for a few days, that we were not in a reeking state of perspiration.  Ah! we were more than a thousand miles north of Manila, and that is as far as the coast of Maine to Cuba.  The wind followed us, and at last gained a speed greater than our own; then it shifted and came down from the northwest.  It was the wind that swept from Siberia, and Kamschatka’s grim peninsula pointed us out.  The smoke from our funnels blew black and dense away southeast, and did not change more than a point or two for a week.  The Pacific began to look like the North Atlantic.  There came a “chill out of a cloud” as in the poetic case of Annabel Lee.  There had been, during our tropical experience, some outcries for the favor of a few chills, but now they were like the typhoons.  When it was found that they might be had we did not want them.  After all, warm weather was not so bad, and the chills that were in the wind that whistled from Siberia were rather objectionable.  It was singular to call for one, two, three blankets, and then hunt up overcoats.  White trousers disappeared two or three days after the white coats.  Straw hats were called for by the wind.  One white cap on an officer’s head responded alone to the swarm of white caps on the water.  The roll of the waves impeded our great northern circle.  We could have made it, but we should have had to roll with the waves.  We got no higher than 45 degrees.  We had our two Thursdays, and thought of the fact that on the mystical meridian 180, where three days get mixed up in one!  The Pacific Ocean, from pole to pole, so free on the line where the dispute as to the day it is, goes on forever, that only one small island is subject to the witchery of mathematics, and the proof in commonplace transactions unmixed with the skies that whatever may be the matter with the sun—­the earth do move, is round, do roll over, and does not spill off the sea in doing so.  At last came shrill head winds, and as we added fifteen miles an hour to this speed, the harp strings in the rigging were touched with weird music, and we filled our lungs consciously and conscientiously with American air, experiencing one of the old sensations, better than anything new.