AMID SPRUCES AND SEA-GIRT ROCKS 177 



to the steam foghorn building, located just up from a very 

 rough, rocky shore. This is a cobble-stone beach, composed 

 of rocks rounded by the action of the waves, varying from 

 the size of a man's head to that of a haystack. Resting upon 

 the tops of the larger ones were groups of these curious birds, 

 about the size of small ducks, enjoying the sunshine. Their 

 plumage is entirely black, except for a large oval patch of 

 white on each wing, which shows very conspicuously whether 

 they are sitting or flying. Other parties of them are out on 

 the water, a few rods offshore. They ride easily on the 

 swells, which, after passing them, break as surf upon the 

 rocks. Their food is fish, which they secure by diving. One 

 by one they plunge and disappear, remaining under water 

 for as much as a minute at a time. No doubt they improve 

 these moments of submersion, for they appear well-fed and 

 plump enough. After a spell at fishing or playing about 

 in the water, they will start to fly, sometimes singly, some- 

 times the whole party at once. Their wings beat very rapidly 

 and they pass the rock almost like bullets, their bright car- 

 mine feet and legs dangling conspicuously behind. Often, 

 when I sat quietly among the rocks watching them, they 

 would alight one after the other upon some boulder quite 

 close to me, and then step about, turning this way and that 

 to look me all over, not so much in fear as in curiosity. 

 Their legs are set so far behind them that they walk almost 

 erect, like penguins or murres. When they have satisfied 

 themselves, they squat or lie down, others coming to join 

 them from time to time, till there are a dozen or more in 

 the party. 



No one would call them communicative. The only sound 

 they make is a shrill, rather faint whistle, which is not aud- 

 ible at any great distance. Perhaps they make up for this 

 comparative muteness by their varied and expressive gestures. 



