THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE JUNK 0' POEK. 

 LEACH'S PETREL. 



" Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant 1 gives the door to us, 

 Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud to lea : 

 Till the last, last nicker goes 

 From the tumbling water-rows, 

 And we're off to Mother Carey 

 (Walk her down to Mother Carey !) 



Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea ! " 

 RUDYARD KIPLING, Anchor Song. 



NEAR the entrance to Casco Bay, on the coast of Maine, 

 close by the route of steamers going into Portland, is a 

 curious island which never fails to attract the attention of 

 the tourist. At low tide it may show half an acre, but at 

 high water there appears only a bluff-sided island perhaps 

 twenty-five feet above the sea and forty feet in length, 

 slightly curving, and on top bare of house, or tree, or bush, 

 but green with short grass. Some facetious sailor in years 

 gone by, remembering the fat "rounds" that were always 

 kept in the pickle barrel of the farm-houses, called it the 

 " Junk o' Pork." It looks very much like a piece of fat pork, 

 twice as long as it is thick, lying rind toward you. The little 

 island is uninhabited, and almost inaccessible by man. A few 

 years since, and probably it is the same to-day, all that lived 



1 An island off the coast of France, whose lighthouse is the last sighted 

 as the ship steers out into the Atlantic. 

 D 33 



