482 Porpoise -Shooting. 



shark appear, as the monster, attracted by the scent of blood, rushes 

 to dispute possession of the prey. 



Although there are well-authenticated cases of a shark's having 

 actually cut the porpoise in two just as the Indian was hauling it 

 aboard of his canoe, I have never heard of any harm resulting to 

 the Indians from attacks of this nature ; nor do they in the least fear 

 the sharks, but, on the contrary, boldly attack and drive them off with 

 their long spears. 



One evening, after I had passed several days on the Indian 

 Beach, sketching and making studies, Sebatis returned from visiting 

 one of the camps, and said: 



" S'pose you like to try 'im porpusin', I find very good hand go 

 with us." 



"Who is he, Sebatis?" 



"You never see 'im 'tall; his name's Pieltoma." 



"When do we start?" 



" May be about daylight, s'pose no fog." 



Judging by my experience during the few days that I had been 

 on the island, Sebatis's proviso about the fog seemed likely to indefi- 

 nitely postpone our expedition. Whence the fog came, or whither 

 it went, seemed one of those things that no person could find out. 

 At times, when the sun was shining brightly, the distant cliffs would 

 suddenly become obscured as if a vail had been dropped over them, 

 then nearer objects would become indistinct, and while one was 

 wondering at the rapid change, everything animate and inanimate 

 would vanish as if by magic. For a time, silence reigned supreme, 

 then a din as of the infernal regions began. First, a big steam- 

 whistle on the land half a mile away sent out its melancholy boo- 

 00-00 in warning to passing mariners; then from the sea came the 

 answering whistle of some passing steamer; then the fishermen at 

 anchor in the bay blew their tin fog-horns and their conch-shell fog- 

 horns, until at last one became thoroughly convinced that every 

 conceivable and inconceivable form of "American devil," as the 

 English term our steam-whistle, was faithfully represented in the 

 uproar. Now and then, during an interlude, a sound that might 

 have been uttered by a mountain gnome echoed through the void. 

 This was the dismal "kong, kong" of the raven, seated away up on 

 some projecting crag. Here the raven is a regal bird and attains 



