To those fortunate mortals from whom Poseidon exacts no tribute in crossing his broad domain¹, a transatlantic voyage must afford each year an ever new delight.  The cares and worries of existence fade away and disappear in company with the land, in the deep bosom² of the ocean buried.  One no longer feels like the bored mortal who has all winter turned the millstone of work and pleasure, but seems to have transmigrated into a new body, endowed with a ravenous³ appetite and perfectly⁴ fresh sensations.  
Perhaps it is only the novelty of the surroundings; but as I lie somnolent⁵ in my chair, tucked into a corner of the white deck, watching the jade-colored water rush past below, and the sea-gulls circle gayly overhead, the summum bonum of earthly contentment seems attained⁶.  The book chosen with care remains⁷ uncut; the sense of physical and mental rest is too exquisite⁸ to be broken by any effort, even the reading of a favorite author.
 
Drowsy⁹ lapses¹⁰ into unconsciousness obscure the senses, like the transparent¹¹ clouds that from time to time dim the sunlight.  A distant bell in the wheel-house chimes the lazy half-hours.  Groups of people come and go like figures on a lantern-slide.  A curiously¹² detached reeling makes the scene and the actors in it as unreal as a painted ship manned by a shadowy crew.  The inevitable¹³ child tumbles on its face and is picked up shrieking¹⁴ by tender parents; energetic youths organize games of skill or discover whales on the horizon, without disturbing one’s philosophic¹⁵ calm.
 
I congratulate myself on having chosen a foreign line.  For a week at least no familiar name will be spoken, no accustomed face appear.  The galling¹⁶ harness of routine is loosened; one breathes freely again conscious of the unoccupied hours in perspective.
 
The welcome summons to luncheon¹⁷ comes as a pleasant shock.  Is it possible that the morning has passed?  It seems to have but commenced.  I rouse myself and descend¹⁸ to the cabin.  Toward the end of the meal a rubicund¹⁹ Frenchman opposite makes the startling proposition that if I wish to send a message home he will undertake to have it delivered.  It is not until I notice the little square of oiled paper he is holding out to me that I understand this reference to the “pigeon post” with which the Compagnie Transatlantique is experimenting.  At the invitation of this new acquaintance I ascend²⁰ to the upper deck and watch his birds depart.
 
The tiny bits of paper on which we have written (post-card fashion) message and address are rolled two or three together, and inserted into a piece of quill²¹ less than two inches long, which, however, they do not entirely²² fill.  While a pigeon is held by one man, another pushes one of the bird’s tail-feathers well through the quill, which is then fastened in its place by two minute wooden wedges.  A moment later the pigeon is tossed up into the air, and we witness the working of that mysterious instinct which all our modern science leaves unexplained.  After a turn or two far up in the clear sky, the bird gets its bearings and darts²³ off on its five-hundred-mile journey across unknown seas to an unseen land—a voyage that no deviation²⁴ or loitering will lengthen²⁵, and only fatigue²⁶ or accident interrupt, until he alights at his cote.
 
Five of these willing messengers were started the first day out, and five more will leave to-morrow, poor little aërial postmen, almost predestined to destruction (in the latter case), for we shall then be so far from land that their one chance of life and home must depend on finding some friendly mast where an hour’s rest may be taken before the bird starts again on his journey.
 
In two or three days, according to the weather, we shall begin sending French pigeons on ahead of us toward Havre.  The gentleman in charge of them tells me that his wife received all the messages he sent to her during his westward²⁷ trip, the birds appearing each morning at her window (where she was in the habit feeding them) with their tidings from mid-ocean.  He also tells me that the French fleet in the Mediterranean²⁸ recently received messages from their comrades in the Baltic on the third day by these feathered envoys²⁹.
 
It is hoped that in future ocean steamers will be able to keep up communication with the land at least four out of the seven days of their trips, so that, in case of delay or accident, their exact position and circumstances can be made known at headquarters.  It is a pity, the originator of the scheme remarked, that sea-gulls are such hopeless vagabonds, for they can fly much greater distances than pigeons, and are not affected³⁰ by dampness, which seriously cripples the present messengers.
 
Later in the day a compatriot, inspired doubtless by the morning’s experiment, confided

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