We were in the parlor on Walnut Street. A cheery fire was blazing, and Papa was reading to me from “Rip Van Winkle.” The delicious aroma of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie mingled in the air with the familiar smell of Papa’s pipe. It was all so warm and safe. And then, all at once, the ship gave a sickening lurch and I awoke with a start, banging my head on the low ceiling of the cabin. “Blast!” I shouted, rubbing my head. “Had a pleasant nap, then, Jane my girl?” Mary asked brightly. I scowled at her. With a huff of frustration, I pushed back the sheets and dangled my feet over the edge of the bunk and rested them on the floor. My stockings were immedi ately soaked through. I looked down in dismay. The bucket of seawater Samuel had brought in that morning had sloshed all over the floor. We had been making do with cold seawater for bathing for the entire trip, and my skin was dreadfully itchy. “I do believe I’d give almost anything for a proper bath,” I said fervently, scratching at my ankle in a most indelicate way.
