AMONG THE WATER-FOWL 



to one side, and away they go across the white- 

 capped ranges of ocean mountains. Wild things 

 they are, living that roving life on the unquiet 

 ocean, knowing for months no real resting place. 

 How can they rest amid the breaking seas ? Who 

 knows, when the gales blow for days at a time, 

 whether they remain all that time, day and night, 

 upon wing, or settle momentarily on the agitated 

 water, till a breaking surge soon forces them awing? 

 And how fare the seemingly puny little Petrels, so 

 slight of form that they appear like little dark 

 butterflies or tufts of down, driven by every blast ? 

 At times the storms are indeed more than they 

 can bear. I have seen dead bodies of Shearwaters 

 on the ocean beach, and once I was witness to the 

 close of the wandering career of a Leach's Petrel. 

 It was during the raging of an October hurricane 

 from the northeast, when, impressed by the sublimity 

 of the forces that were uprooting trees and multi- 

 plying destruction upon the land, I took the train 

 to Sandwich, on Cape Cod, that I might witness 

 the effect of the storm upon the ocean. Those 

 who have been by the sea at such a time can realize 

 much that I witnessed. It was well worth braving 

 the beating rain and the furious wind to see the 

 surges thunder in upon the sand, the white, seething 

 cauldron of the ocean, and the hordes of water-fowl, 

 mostly sea-ducks of various sorts, thousands upon 

 thousands of them, that were passing, some skim- 

 ming low over the waves, others blown in over the 

 beach. Strong of wing, the gale but helped them 

 on their southward course, yet not all. As I stood 

 on the sand, I noticed a flutter of wings amid an 



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