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 
