remained at work until night, except a short spell for dinner.  The length of the hold, from stem to stern, was floored off level; and we began with raising a pile in the after part, hard against the bulkhead of the run, and filling it up to the beams, crowding in as many as we could by hand and pushing in with oars, when a large ``book’’ was made of from twenty-five to fifty hides, doubled at the backs, and placed one within another, so as to leave but one outside hide for the book.  An opening was then made between two hides in the pile, and the back of the outside hide of the book inserted.  Above and below this book were placed smooth strips of wood, well greased, called ``ways,’’ to facilitate the sliding in of the book.  Two long, heavy spars, called steeves, made of the strongest wood, and sharpened off like a wedge at one end, were placed with their wedge ends into the inside of the hide which was the centre of the book, and to the other end of each straps were fitted, into which large tackles[1] were hooked, composed each of two huge purchase blocks, one hooked to the strap on the end of the steeve, and the other into a dog, fastened into one of the beams, as far aft as it could be got.  When this was arranged, and the ways greased upon which the book was to slide, the falls of the tackles were stretched forward, and all hands tallied on, and bowsed away upon them until the book was well entered, when these tackles were nippered, straps and toggles clapped upon the falls, and two more luff tackles hooked on, with dogs, in the same manner; and thus, by luff upon luff, the power was multiplied, until into a pile in which one hide more could not be crowded by hand a hundred or a hundred and fifty were often driven by this complication of purchases.  When the last luff was hooked on, all hands were called to the rope,—­ cook, steward, and all,—­ and ranging ourselves at the falls, one behind the other, sitting down on the hides, with our heads just even with the beams, we set taut upon the tackles, and striking up a song, and all lying back at the chorus, we bowsed the tackles home, and drove the large books chock in out of sight.

The sailors’ songs for capstans and falls are of a peculiar kind, having a chorus at the end of each line.  The burden is usually sung by one alone, and, at the chorus, all hands join in,—­ and, the louder the noise, the better.  With us, the chorus seemed almost to raise the decks of the ship, and might be heard at a great distance ashore.  A song is as necessary to sailors as the drum and fife to a soldier.  They must pull together as soldiers must step in time, and they can’t pull in time, or pull with a will, without it.  Many a time, when a thing goes heavy, with one fellow yo-ho-ing, a lively song, like ``Heave, to the girls!’’ ``Nancy O!’’ ``Jack Crosstree,’’ ``Cheerly, men,’’ &c., has put life and strength into every arm.  We found a great difference in the effect of the various songs in driving in the