THE CASSIN AUKLET. gs 
To the north, some twenty miles, the twinkling masts of the Umatilla light-ship 
appear ; while mirabile dictu, as far again may be seen the intermittent flash of 
old Tatoosh, the welcome Pharos of the Northwest. ‘To eastward the lights 
of the Indian village blink sleepily. To westward and barely discernible, a 
passing steamer. Above,—but I may not tell the stars. Below—Ah, yes; be- 
neath lies a sea of potential fire, lightless when unhindered, but flashing into a 
sudden fury of phosphorescence wherever the reefs oppose it. For all about 
us and below are rocks and reefs uncounted, black and somber save as kindled 
momentarily by the lucent flickerings of the surf. 
The stage setting is perfect down to the foot-lights. Now for the 
orchestra. ‘‘Petteretteretterell, etteretterettercll’—it is the tap, tap of 
the Petrel conductor calling the island to attention. Soon ghostly forms steal 
about in the gathering gloom. Voice answers voice as each moment flies. The 
flitting shadows become a throng, and the chorus a tumult. But in the grand 
melange there is a new note. A quaint burring croak wells up from the 
ground, elfish, gruesome, portentous. The Cassin Auklets are waking up. 
Heard alone the Auklet chorus reminds one of a frog-pond in full cry. As 
one gives attention to an individual performer, however, and seeks to locate 
him in his burrow, the mystery and strangeness of it grows. The vocalist is 
complaining bitterly of we know not what wrongs. We must be within three 
feet of the noise as we stoop at the burrow’s mouth; the volume of it 1s ear- 
filling; yet its source seems furlongs off. Now it is like the squealing of a pig 
ina distant slaughter pen. We lift our heads and the stock yards are reeling 
with the prayers and cries of a thousand victims. And now the complaint falls 
into a cadence, “Let mece out, let meee out, let me out.” A thousand dolorous 
voices take up the chorus. The uproar gets upon the nerves. Is this a bird 
lunatic asylum? Have we stumbled upon an avian mad-house here in the lone 
Pacific? and are these inmates appealing to the moon, their absent mistress ? 
Nay, rather it is the eternal infant. It is the voice of elemental hunger we 
hear, and we are powerless to answer. Oh, the unwearying importunity of 
the hungry child! Earth nor heaven shall forget him while he draws the 
breath of want. Listen, ocean! and hearken, ye still spaces! “Let ime eat, let 
me eat, let me cat!” Anxious fathers and distraught mothers hurry to and fro 
under the lash of the myriad hunger cry. There are some sounds of satisfac- 
tion here and there, but they are drowned in the universal shout. Hour after 
hour goes by and still the fury of demand increases. Fast and faster whirls 
the ministering host. High and higher rolls the tumult— 
“Meester Dawson! Hello, Meester Dawson!” Why—why—it’s Cali- 
fornia, our Indian guide, down in the canoe; and the sun is an hour high. A 
lone puffin quits his post and the gulls begin to quaver, but Kwoahlla 
where is he? : 
A Cassin Aukery is as silent as the grave in daytime. Moreover, the 
