UNDER THE MAPLES 



the sea does not appear. The young are born 

 upon the land and enter the water very reluc- 

 tantly. 



This seal is easily tamed. It has the intelligence 

 of the dog and attaches itself to its master as does 

 the dog. Its sense of direction and locality is very 

 acute. This group of seals in front of me, day 

 after day, and week after week, returns to the 

 same spot in the ever-changing waters, without 

 the variation of a single yard, so far as I can see. 

 The locality is purely imaginary. It is a love tryst, 

 and it seems as if some sixth sense must guide 

 them to it. Locality is as unreal in the sea as in 

 the sky, but these few square yards of shifting 

 waters seem as real to these seals as if they were 

 a granite ledge. They keep massed there on the 

 water at that particular point, with their flippers 

 protruding above the surface, as if they were as 

 free from danger as so many picnickers. Yet 

 something attracts them to this particular place. 

 I know of no other spot along the coast for a 

 hundred miles or more where the seals congregate 

 as they do here. What is the secret of it? Evi- 

 dently it is a question of security from their 

 enemies. At this point the waves break much 

 farther out than usual, which indicates a hidden 

 reef or bench of rocks, and comparatively shallow 

 water. This would prevent their enemies, sharks 

 and killer whales, from stealing up beneath them 



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