THE CASSIN AUKLET. 915 



To the north, some twentv miles, the twinkhng masts of the L'matiUa hglit-ship 

 appear; while iinrabilc dictii. as far again ma}- be seen the intermittent flash of 

 old Tatoosh, the welcome Pharos of the Northwest. To eastward the lights 

 of the Indian \illage blink sleepily. To westward and barel\- discernible, a 

 passhig steamer. Above, — but I may not tell the stars. Below — Ah, yes; be- 

 neath lies a sea of potential tire, lightless when unhindered, but Hashing into a 

 sudden furv of i)hosphorescence wherever the reefs oppose it. For all about 

 us and below are rocks and reefs uncounted, black and somber save as kindled 

 momentarilv bv the lucent flickerings of the surf. 



The stage setting is perfect driwn to the foot-lights. Now for the 

 orchestra. "PcttcrettcrcttcrcU, cttcrcttcrcttcrcU" — it is the tap, tap of 

 the Petrel conductor calling the island to attention. Soon ghostly forms steal 

 about in the gathering gloom. Voice answers voice as each moment flies. The 

 flitting shadows become a throng, and the chorus a tumult. But in the grand 

 melange there is a new note. .\ quaint burring croak wells up from the 

 ground, eltish, gruesome, pDrtentrnis. The Cassin Auklets are waking up. 

 Heard alone the Anklet chorus reminds one of a frog-pond in full cry. As 

 one gives attention to an indi\'idual performer, however, and seeks to locate 



him in his burrow, the mvster\- and strangeness of it grows. The vocalist 'S 

 complaining bitterly of we know not what wrongs. We must be within three 

 feet of the noise as we stoop at the lourrow's mouth; the volume of it is ear- 

 filling; }'et its source seems furlongs off. Now it is like the squealing i)f a jiig 

 in a distant slaughter pen. We lift our heads and the stock yards are reeling 

 with the pravers and cries of a thousand \-ictims. And now the com])laint falls 

 intcT a cadence, "Let luccc out, let iiiccc out. let iiic out." A thousand dulorous 

 voices take up the chorus. The uproar gets upon the nerves Is this a bird 

 lunatic asvlum ? Have we stumbled upon an a\'ian mad-house here in the lone 

 Pacific? and are these inmates appealing to the moon, tlieir absent mistress? 



Nay, rather it is the eternal infant. It is the voice of elemental hunger we 

 hear, and we are powerless to answer. Oh. the unwearying importunity of 

 the hungry child! Earth nor heaven shall forget him while he draws the 

 breath of want. Listen, ocean! and hearken, ye still spaces! "Let me eat. let 

 me eat, h^t me eat!" Anxious fathers and distraught mothers hurry to and fro 

 under the lash of the myriad hunger cr}-. There are some sounds of satisfac- 

 tion here and there, but they are drowned in the universal shout. Hour after 

 hour goes by and still the fury of demand increases. Fast and faster whirls 

 the ministering host. High and higher rolls the tumult — 



"Meester Dawson! Hello, Meester Dawson!" Why — why — it's Cali- 

 fornia, our Indian guide, d(5wn in the canoe ; and the sun is an hour high. A 

 lone puffin quits his post and the gulls begin to quaver, but Kwoahlla — 

 where is he? 



A Cassin Aukery is as silent as the gra\-e in daytime. Moreover, the 



