Excerpt: "On the morning of the 25th day of April, 18-, the whale-ship Montpelier, of New London, anchored in one of the many bays that open along the coast of Kamschatka, where it is washed by the waters of the Sea of Ochotsk. As soon as every thing was made snug alow and aloft, the skipper rubbed his hands with complacency, and a satisfied expression was seen to cross even the face of Mr. Briggs, the first mate, who was the ship’s grumbler. "Good quarters, " remarked the captain. "Ay, ay, sir, " responded Briggs, "the tide is easy here and I don’t think a gale would hurt us much-we are so shut in by the cliffs. But, " he suddenly added, turning his glance toward a large field of ice, about a league from the shore, "I don’t like the looks of yonder floe. It may come upon us and give us a jam." "It will drift past us, " replied the captain; "the current tends to the north’ard." "I’m not so sure of that, " said the mate, as he snatched a glass from the mizzen fife-rail, and directed it toward the ice. "Them undercurrents up this way sometimes plays the very smash. But if I ain’t much mistaken, I see a bear moving along the floe." As he spoke, he passed the glass to his companion, who immediately lifted it to his eye. "Do you see the animal, captain?" "Ay, ay, there it is, sure enough; a brown bear, I believe." "Uncle!" exclaimed a gentle voice at this instant, and a light hand fell upon the captain’s shoulder. "How wild! how picturesque! What place is this?""
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