A TRIP TO THE FARALLONES 



coat, and was accordingly soon compelled to go below, 

 drenched and disconsolate. 



We passed the ships anchored in the streaun. Alcatraz, 

 with its array of fortifications, was on the right of us and 

 Black Point on the left. As we stood out past Lime Point, in 

 the teeth of a stiff breeze, I occupied myself watching the 

 California murres disporting in the water. The murre is one 

 of the low forms of sea bird which nest along the exposed 

 rocky cliffs of both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. In size 

 it about equals a small gull, but has shorter, stiffer wings and 

 a sharper style of bill; in color it is dark sooty brown on the 

 back, head and throat, with white on the under parts of the 

 body. 



From an examination of the dead bird one would suppose 

 the murre must be a slow and clumsy flier, so small are the 

 wings in proportion to the body; but, when once started, it 

 flies with great swiftness, its sharply pointed body cleaving the 

 air like a spear, and its compact little wings whirring like a 

 windmill. TTiose flying about our boat were very tame, and 

 allowed us to draw quite close before making any attempt to 

 escape. Some would then dive with an impatient jerk, but the 

 majority would start to fly. Apparently not having the time 

 nor energy to lift their bodies out of the water, they would 

 flap along on the surface, splashing and scuffling in a ludi- 

 crously frantic manner. Occasionally some peculiarly ener- 

 getic individual would actually lift himself above the sustain- 

 ing fluid, but, apparently blinded in his hurry to escape, 

 would plunge directly at the first wave that happened to be 

 slightly higher than usual, and tumble into the water in the 

 most awkward manner imaginable. 



[37] 



