THE GREAT CUTHBERT ROOKERY 65 



of his tiny Flobert rifle, inaudible a few rods away, attracted 

 the attention of no wandering alligator-hunter. Weeks went 

 by, and matters were very different upon the island. No bird 

 now winged its way to the solitude, save hordes of Turkey 

 Buzzards and Fish Crows. In the thousands of nests were 

 swarms of flies around the decaying bodies of young birds 

 that had starved to death. On the ground were reeking piles 

 of the bodies of their natural protectors, each with strips of 

 skin and plumage torn from its back. The rookery was, as 

 the local term has it, "shot out." The buzzards were gorged 

 and happy, and so was the brutal Cuthbert over his $1800 

 from the wholesale milliners, so the story goes. 



Quite recently my friend and guide, the game-warden, had 

 visited the spot, and, finding that quite a colony of birds had 

 located there again, posted warning game-protection notices. 

 Naturally I was anxious to visit this remarkable place, but 

 had to let the rest of the party go there first without me, 

 when I lay in the Cape Sable shanty ill from drinking swamp- 

 water. But after they had returned home, I took the trip 

 alone with the guide. 



The first stage of the journey was made in a small 

 open sail-boat, with a flat-bottomed skiff in tow, about twelve 

 miles eastward from camp, along the coast-line, up into the 

 shallows of Barnes's Sound. When the first-mentioned party 

 went, a strong northeast wind had blown most of the water 

 out of the sound, and they had to wade the " soft soap " mud 

 and push the boat for no less than ten of the dozen miles. 

 We were more fortunate in having water enough for sailing ; 

 but the wind died out to a flat calm, so that we had to 

 row. About midnight we anchored off opposite our destina- 

 tion, slept on some planks across the thwarts, and pulled the 

 sail over us when the rain came down. In the morning it 

 still showered, and we hesitated about pushing up into the 



