Ocean Wanderers 



at night. It was Bunker Hill Day, splendid 

 weather, and a fine, lair breeze. We got an early- 

 start, and in three-quarters of an hour, sailing 

 *' wing-a-wing," we were off the island, a grim- 

 looking rock, covered with green-sward on top, a 

 good half-mile long, and rather narrow. One of 

 the crew rowed us ashore on the less precipitous 

 western side. Even there it was not much sheltered, 

 as the mainland was twenty miles away, and even in 

 calm weather the sea broke not a little on the rocks. 

 However, watching our chance, we managed to 

 scramble out on a shelving ledge, immediately after 

 which the retreating wave carried back the boat. 

 The schooner departed for the lishing ground, while 

 we scrambled up the rocks and bank to the summit 

 of the island. 



No sooner had we reached the turf than I 

 noticed a little burrow, and my friend at the same 

 moment another, and there they were all around us. 

 Selecting one, I pulled up the sod with my hands. 

 The hole did not go straight down, but ran along 

 iust below the roots of the grass, for about a couple 

 ot feet. Then it broadened out into a sort of 

 pocket, in which, on a slight lining of grass and 

 feathers, sat a Leach's Petrel on a single white Qgg. 

 The bird seemed dazed by the sudden glare of day, 

 and did not make any effort to escape. When I 

 took hold of it, it made just the least bit of a 

 struggle, and squirted out from its nostrils on my 

 hands a few drops of yellowish oil that gave forth a 

 peculiar, disagreeable odor. When I opened my 

 hand, it did not make any attempt to fly off. 

 When placed on the ground, it merely squatted, but 



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