Mark Twain - Following the Equator

There was other scenery in the trip. That of the Hawksbury river, in the National Park region, fine—extraordinarily fine, with spacious views of stream and lake imposingly framed in woody hills; and every now and then the noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchanting rearrangements of the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinly covered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins of small farmers engaged in raising children. Still further along, arid stretches, lifeless and melancholy. Then Newcastle, a rushing town, capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone, wide farming and grazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant—a particularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons of the agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributed gratis to the colony. Blazing hot, all day.

December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again. From the newspaper, and from the map, I have made a collection of curious names of Australasian towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them:

Tumut

Takee

Murriwillumba

Bowral

Ballarat

Mullengudgery

Murrurundi

Wagga-Wagga

Wyalong

Murrumbidgee

Goomeroo

Wolloway

Wangary

Wanilla

Worrow

Koppio

Yankalilla

Yaranyacka

Yackamoorundie

Kaiwaka

Coomooroo

Tauranga

Geelong

Tongariro

Kaikoura

Wakatipu

Oohipara

Waitpinga

Goelwa

Munno Para

Nangkita

Myponga

Kapunda

Kooringa

Penola

Nangwarry

Kongorong

Comaum

Koolywurtie

Killanoola

Naracoorte

Muloowurtie

Binnum

Wallaroo

Wirrega

Mundoora

Hauraki

Rangiriri

Teawamute

Taranaki

Toowoomba

Goondiwindi

Jerrilderie

Whangaroa

Wollongong

Woolloomooloo

Bombola

Coolgardie

Bendigo

Coonamble

Cootamundra

Woolgoolga

Mittagong

Jamberoo

Kondoparinga

Kuitpo

Tungkillo

Oukaparinga

Talunga

Yatala

Parawirra

Moorooroo

Whangarei

Woolundunga

Booleroo

Pernatty

Parramatta

Taroom

Narrandera

Deniliquin

Kawakawa.

It may be best to build the poem now, and make the weather help

(To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down.)

Those are good words for poetry. Among the best I have ever seen. There are 81 in the list. I did not need them all, but I have knocked down 66 of them; which is a good bag, it seems to me, for a person not in the business. Perhaps a poet laureate could do better, but a poet laureate gets wages, and that is different. When I write poetry I do not get any wages; often I lose money by it. The best word in that list, and the most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomoolloo. It is a place near Sydney, and is a favorite pleasure-resort. It has eight O's in it.

From Sydney for Ceylon—A Lascar Crew—A Fine Ship—Three Cats and a Basket of Kittens—Dinner Conversations—Veuve Cliquot Wine—At Anchor in King George's Sound Albany Harbor—More Cats—A Vulture on Board—Nearing the Equator again—Dressing for Dinner—Ceylon, Hotel Bristol—Servant Brampy—A Feminine Man—Japanese Jinriksha or Cart—Scenes in Ceylon—A Missionary School—Insincerity of Clothes

MONDAY,—December 23, 1895. Sailed from Sydney for Ceylon in the P. & O. steamer 'Oceana'. A Lascar crew mans this ship—the first I have seen. White cotton petticoat and pants; barefoot; red shawl for belt; straw cap, brimless, on head, with red scarf wound around it; complexion a rich dark brown; short straight black hair; whiskers fine and silky; lustrous and intensely black. Mild, good faces; willing and obedient people; capable, too; but are said to go into hopeless panics when there is danger. They are from Bombay and the coast thereabouts. Left some of the trunks in Sydney, to be shipped to South Africa by a vessel advertised to sail three months hence. The proverb says: "Separate not yourself from your baggage."

This 'Oceana' is a stately big ship, luxuriously appointed. She has spacious promenade decks. Large rooms; a surpassingly comfortable ship. The officers' library is well selected; a ship's library is not usually that . . . . For meals, the bugle call, man-of-war fashion; a pleasant change from the terrible gong . . . . Three big cats—very friendly loafers; they wander all over the ship; the white one follows the chief steward around like a dog. There is also a basket of kittens. One of these cats goes ashore, in port, in England, Australia, and India, to see how his various families are getting along, and is seen no more till the ship is ready to sail. No one knows how he finds out the sailing date, but no doubt he comes down to the dock every day and takes a look, and when he sees baggage and passengers flocking in, recognizes that it is time to get aboard. This is what the sailors believe. . . .