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“That cry is ‘Help!’ where no help can come,

For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,”

and he disappeared in an “ocean grave,” amid the mingled foam and driving spray. No more songs then; all gaiety was quenched, and many a tear-drop clouded eyes so bright before. The vessel, under one small sail only (the jib), drove on, and in half an hour broke out of obscurity and mist, and was off the wharfs and lights of San Francisco in calm water. The same distance had occupied over four hours in the morning.

In the Mediterranean every wind has its special name. There is the searching north wind, the Grippe or Mistral, said to be one of the scourges of gay Provence—

“La Cour de Parlement, le Mistral et la Durance,

Sont les trois fléaux de la Provence.”

The north blast, a sudden wind, is called Boras, and hundreds of sailors have practically prayed, with the song,

“Cease, rude Boreas.”

The north-east biting wind is the Gregale, while the south-east, often a violent wind, is the dreaded Sirocco, bad either on sea or shore. The last which need be mentioned here, is the stifling south-west wind, the Siffante. But now we have reached the Suez Canal.

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