WILD WINGS 
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boat, and, as far as we could learn, none had succeeded in 
the attempt. One, I think, had been unable to land ; another 
had missed the Rock in the fog; another had been even 
worse lost, had tossed about on a cold, angry sea for an 
indehnite period, with one of the men sick and nearly dying 
from fright and exposure. It was not an alluring prospect, 
and, to be honest, we rather shrank from it. Yet we did 
badly want to get to Bird Rock, especially after coming so far. 
Now there was at Grosse Isle a certain young fisherman of 
twenty-four — I will not say summers, but winters, Magdalen 
Island winters at that, with their long months of below zero 
temperatures and silence of frozen death. These winters, in 
their rough way, had dealt kindly with the youth, and had 
fashioned him into as hardy, muscular, and daring a type of 
manhood as it is often one’s fortune to see. The turbulent 
sea had no terrors for him, as he hauled his lobster-traps in 
the gale of wind and at oft times helped to smuggle over 
valuable cargoes of French wines and liquors from St. Pierre. 
Fie was the man who volunteered to sail us over in his 
seventeen-foot open lobster boat any day when there was 
anv sort of a chance. So we cheered up and lived in hope. 
Our plans gave us but ten precious days. Half of them 
passed, unfavorable. At first the sea was rough after a jDre- 
vious gale. Then set in a cold, blustering norther, when we 
had to run and beat our hands to keep warm, in our winter 
clothes at that. Next followed a southeast blow, rainstorm, 
and fog. The sixth day was clear, but the sea was rough. 
Time was now alarmingly short, and we were becoming 
anxious. We spent the morning in the spruce woods, and 
noticed that the wind was moderating. At eleven came a boy 
with a message from our bold mariner. He would sail for 
Bryon Island as soon as we could get ready, and thence try 
for Bird Rock next morning. Hurriedly finishing my camera 
