MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 195 



And often since, when the wind has been high, 

 when the woods have roared and heaved, and the 

 house has rocked in the might of the gale, I have 

 seen that little brood of Mother Carey's chickens 

 swirl through the breaking crest of some ghost 

 wave, ride past my ship asleep, and vanish in the 

 dream. 



It is awesome enough to hear the creak of 

 frozen branches, and the hiss of driving snow and 

 rushing winds past your chamber, when you think 

 that out in it all are the winter birds sleeping. 

 They have a hundred shelters, however, a hun- 

 dred hidings from the force of the storm. But on 

 the unsheltered ocean there are only the yawning 

 troughs that dip for a moment from the lash of 

 the winds, only the tossing tumult of the waves. 

 Who could fail to ask, seeing this troop of birds 

 far out on the ocean, Whence do they hail? 

 And whither are they bound? Not much larger 

 than swallows, they have dared all the great 

 liner dares, and more. They have cleared from 

 some shore, but the ocean is their home. They 

 love the waves; they revel in the storm. If seen 

 on the North Atlantic in the summer they may 

 be our Leach's petrel that nests on the islands in 



