“His wings and his feathers are sunrise red,

He hails the sun and his golden head,

Good morning, Doc, you are long abed.”

“His wings and his feathers are sunrise red, He hails the sun and his golden head, Good morning, Doc, you are long abed.”

This last was a most irreverent interpolation, I well knew. I opened my door. O’Keefe stood outside laughing. The Suwarna , her engines silent, was making fine headway under all sail, the Brunhilda skipping in her wake cheerfully with half her canvas up.