I’ve studied signs, and know their marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch in Copenhagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then be? The horse-shoe sign; for there it is, right opposite the gold. And what’s the horse-shoe sign? The lion is the horse-shoe sign — the roaring and devouring lion. Ship, old ship! My old head shakes to think of thee.”

“There’s another rendering now; but still one text.

All sorts of men in one kind of world, you see. Dodge again! Here comes Queequeg — all tattooing — looks like the signs of the Zodiac himself. What says the Cannibal? As I live he’s comparing notes; looking at his thigh bone; thinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the bowels, I suppose, as the old women talk Surgeon’s