84 WILD WINGS 



of their pilgrimage. The only other human inhabitants are 

 the family who tend the light upon Loggerhead Key, our 

 last outpost toward Cuba and Panama. Other islets are 

 untenanted, save when the great sea-turtles "crawl" to deposit 

 their numerous eggs in the sand, on moonlight nights of 

 June ; one alone is preempted by the birds. 



On the eighteenth of May, breaking camp and beating 

 back the angry swarm of Cape Sable " skeets," I started out 

 across Florida Bay in the little mail schooner, sailed by a 

 daring " Conch," or Bahama Islander. With a driving north- 

 east wind, directly aft, we scoured along over the white- 

 capped expanse. In surprisingly short time we had passed 

 Sandy Key, of Audubonian fame, and sunk the Capes of 

 Florida. From time to time inky clouds closed in around us 

 with their dark pall, amid furious bursts of rain and angry 

 squalls which threatened to take the sticks out of the schooner 

 and sent waves a-chasing us in a manner that made me fear 

 for my hard-earned camera trophies of the wilderness. By 

 late afternoon we had crossed Florida Bay and were making 

 a splendid run through the mazes of the outer kevs, man- 

 grove-clad, that rose like dark forts on all sides of us. Then 

 it became pitch dark, and I was amazed at the way in which 

 the genial old " Conch " rammed his craft through all sorts 

 of intricate channels, hitting bottom now and then, yet some- 

 how getting through, until, when within five miles of Key 

 West, at nine o'clock, we jDlunged on to a shoal between two 

 keys, and stuck hard and fast. I passed a rather chilly night, 

 in mackintosh and rubber boots — head under the cuddy and 

 legs out in the wet. Early in the morning the rising tide 

 cleared us, and by six A. M. we were at the wharf in Key 

 West, just in time to meet one of my former guides, Mr, 

 Burton, and secure passage upon the government tug which 

 was about to start for the station at the Dry Tortugas. The 



