THE BLACK OYSTER-CATCHER. 697 
careful curiosity. The Cormorants begin to shift uneasily upon their nests, 
while disengaged members of their company join the increasing ranks of 
scouts. Marauders are not so little known that the approach of mysterious 
strangers can be regarded calmly. 
But the official greeting of the motley host is extended by the Black 
Oyster-catcher, the self-constituted guardian of all sea-girt rocks. He has had 
his eye upon us from the moment of launching, and when we are within a 
hundred yards, mindful of his brooding mate or the secreted babies, he flies 
straight out to meet us and quavers a boisterous welcome, a welcome wherein 
anxiety is veiled by effusiveness. His effusiveness, moreover, is not unmingled 
with sarcasm, as who should say, “Good morning, gentlemen, good morning. 
Ah, you are officers of the law, I perceive, and armed with a search warrant. 
Quite proper, quite proper! Help yourselves, gentlemen. If I can be of any 
assistance to your worthy cause, command me.” 
And so the garrulous old marshal goes back shouting and chuckling. 
Once out of sight behind the rock, he repeats hurried instructions to his chil- 
dren to remain hidden in their crevices; then, ever mindful of appearances, he 
hurries forward again, beaming with virtuous importance, and vociferating 
shrilly, “No, gentlemen, there is nothing the matter. I have been clear around 
the island and there isn’t a thief in sight. But help yourselves, gentlemen. 
Oh, yes, help yourselves. Doubtless you are experts.” 
Anon, birdlums! We are very much occupied just now with the problem 
of landing. Our island is nearly surrounded by rocky shoulders which are 
covered only at highest tide, and upon one of these, on the lee side, we hope 
to disembark. Albeit there is little breeze, there is a heavy swell running, and 
the Indians scull cautiously as we draw near. Just as we prepare to leap ashore 
with the cameras we are swiftly upborne by a quartering sea. “‘\Wass!”’ (don’t 
do it) the sternsman cries sharply, and we crouch in terror as the canoe seems 
about to be dashed in pieces upon the flooded reef. But the boat just clears in 
the recoil and we go down, down, while a swift pageant of mussels, barnacles, 
sea-urchins, and bright-hued anemones shoots past us, sputtering and choking 
at the sudden exposure to air. \Vhen we do effect a landing, we must scuttle 
for safety before the next wave reaches, with a dull chug of satisfaction, our 
recent landing-place. 
The lower levels of the bird-rock are sacred to the Oyster-catchers, and 
these engage our attention at once. Very diverting creatures they are at any 
time, but never more so than at close quarters. As large as domestic fowls, 
with sooty black plumage, they are provided with stout feet and legs of a pale 
flesh color, and a strong chisel-shaped bill of a bright vermilion hue. The 
yellow eyes are surrounded by rings of carmine, which impart a droll appear- 
ance to these wags in feathers: and in the midst of most earnest floods of 
bombast, they cannot forbear tipping you sly winks, like auctioneers. 
