Best gift I've ever received has to be a bike when I was younger, a pedal bike.

It was a sort of slick little road bike and I remember it was all like, it was so, it was all wrapped up,

it was so obvious what it was obviously because nothing's shaped like a bike and I had a little ribbon on it and I was so

a guest. For that was a life changer and I'm still sort of big on cycling around my area now so, for that one change me a little.

Enjoy in every sip with red cups now back at Starbucks.

Chapter 133. The Chase. First day.

That night in the mid watch when the old man, as his wanted intervals, stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned and went to his pivot hole.

He suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, stuffing up the seaheer as a ship's dog will, in drawing nigh to some barbaric eye.

He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that peculiar odor sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living sperm whale was palpable to all the watch.

Nor was any mariners surprised when after inspecting the compass and then the dog vein and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as possible.

A-hab rapidly ordered the ship's course to be slightly altered and the sail to be shortened.

The acute policy dictating these movements was sufficiently vindicated at daybreak by the sight of a long sleek on the sea directly and lengthwise ahead.

Smooth as oil and resembling in the pleated watery wrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift tidewrap at the mouth of a deep rapid stream.

Man the mast-heads call all hands. Thundering with the butts of three clubbed hand spikes on the foxal deck, Da-gu raves the sleepers with such judgment-claps that they seemed to exhale from the scuttle.

So instantaneously did they appear with their clothes in their hands.

What do you see, Crite-A-hab flattening his face to the sky? Nothing, nothing, sir, was the sound hailing down in reply.

To gallon-sales, stun-sales, alo and aloft, and on both sides.

All sail being set, he now cast loose the lifeline, reserved for swaying him to the main royal mast-head, and in a few moments they were hoisting him thither.

When, while but two-thirds of the way aloft, and while peering ahead through the horizontal vacancy between the main top sail and top gallon sail, he raised a goal-like cry in the air.

There she blows, there she blows, a hump like a snow-hill. It is moby-dick.

Fired by the cry which seems simultaneously taken up by the three lookouts, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to behold the famous whale they had so long been pursuing.

A-hab had now gained his final perch, some feet above the other lookouts.

...