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While exploring the rocky gullies and canyons in the foothills of Mount Ararat last summer, I found a roughly symmetrical mass of pure copper. Oxidized and honeycombed as it was, I recognized the metal immediately, and repressing a strong inclination to hunt for the lead and stake out my claim, I took my find home with me. Surprised at its diminishing weight as the moisture dried out of the spongy mass, I endeavored to saw into it. The pure metal inside tore off every tooth of the saw, and now convinced that it was a hollow cylinder of hardened copper, I brought it to America and gave it to a machinist to open. He ruined two dozen finely-tempered saws in the job, which I cheerfully settled for, as the cylinder contained a papyrus roll of manuscript of certainly great antiquity.

My efforts to decipher it were baffled, as it was written in neither ancient nor modern Egyptian, new nor old Pali, nor in Greek, Latin, Sanscrit, nor in any other language with which I am acquainted. So I called in the services of two reverend friends of mine–able, eminent, and renowned professors of biology, bibliology, ethnology, and sockdology–who at once pronounced it ancient Cush and proceeded to translate it; one remarking with a levity which but indifferently became his calling, as I thought, that the exceeding toughness of the yarn no doubt accounted for the difficulty of sawing into it–in which view his collaborator, to my surprise, was inclined to coincide.

However, I cheerfully give them credit for the translation, but am free to maintain that the elegance of diction, force of expression, and choiceness of synonyms are my own.

Besides, I found it.

THE LOG.

Mon., 7 days out. Raining yet, very hard–A few sinners still on deck; a bunch got washed off last night; kinder sorry for them–Ham will get a rope’s-end if he don’t look out; he skylarks too much with the animals; put all the dogs in the cats’ cage last night, and the whole menagerie got excited at the row they made; couldn’t hear ourselves think for two hours; every brute in the outfit sung his song–Roof leaks–Women say it’s washday and have started in on the week’s wash; just like women; how’ll they dry clothes this weather?

Course E. B. S. Ham at the wheel, Shem on the lookout.

Tues., 8 days out. 4 bells. Women are growling because the sun don’t shine so the wash can dry; told them such murmuring as they indulged in was flying straight in the face of Providence; told me to mind my own business; remarked that I was captain here and wouldn’t take back talk from anyone; hove a bucket of water over me, durn them. 6 bells. Got my log line strung up along ‘tween decks and the whole blamed wash triced up in everybody’s way. If I want to heave the log at 8 bells, overboard goes the wash, and don’t care who likes it; I’m boss here. 8 bells. Didn’t heave the log–Guess we’re making four knots; wind fresh.

Course E. S. E. Shem at the wheel, Japheth on the lookout.

Wed., 9 days out. Ironing day; blowing a gale of wind; women are making hard work of it and getting seasick–Hove to at 8 bells this morning; lays easy; kicked Ham away from the wheel and steered his trick; afraid I can’t make a sailor of him; wish I’d saved a few sinners to work ship; could have drowned them afterwards.

Heading N. E. by N. Japheth at the wheel.

Thurs., 10 days out. Wish I knew who drinks my whiskey–Made sail at daylight; difficult work, this handling sail below decks; can’t see aloft, must feel when sheets are home; don’t like these new fangled rolling topsails that furl themselves; they’re not shipshape, but we’re too short-handed for the old style–Wind going down.