OcEAN WANDERERS 
at night. It was Bunker Hill Day, splendid 
weather, and a fine, fair 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 éantied back the boat. 
The schooner departed for the fishing 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 
just below the roots of the grass, for about a couple 
of 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 egg. 
The bird seemed dazed by the suatten: glare of ie 
and did not make any effort to escape. When I 
rook holdPoreeeut, 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. 
Mihen placed on the ground, it merely squatted, but 
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