208 BIRDS OF TASMANIA. 



of this part of the ' rookery,' for so these Penguin establishments 

 are called. Other smaller roads led at intervals into the rookery 

 to the nests near its border, but the main street was used for the 

 majority of the birds. The birds took little notice of us, allowing 

 us to stand close by, and even to form ourselves into a group for 

 the photographer in which they were included. This kind of Pen- 

 guin is called by the whalers and sealers ' Rock-hopper,' from its 

 curious mode of progression. The birds hop from rock to rock 

 with both feet placed together, scarcely ever missing their footing. 

 When chased they blunder and fall among the stones, struggling 

 their best to make off. With one of the Germans as guide, 1 

 entered the main street. As soon as one was in it, the grass being 

 above one's head, one was as if in a maze, and could not see in 

 the least where one was going to. Various lateral streets led off 

 on each side from the main road, and are often at their mouths 

 as big as it ; moreover, the road sometimes divides for a little and 

 joins again; hence it is the easiest thing in the world to lose one's 

 way, and one is quite certain to do so when inexperienced in 

 Penguin rookeries. The German, however, who was our guide on 

 our first visit, accustomed to pass through the place constantly for 

 two years, was perfectly well at home in the rookery, and knew 

 every street and turning. 



"It is impossible to conceive the discomfort of making one's 

 way through a big rookery, haphazard, or across country as one 

 may say. I crossed the large one here twice afterwards, with the 

 seamen carrying my basket and vasculum, and afterwards went 

 through a still larger rookery at Nightingale Island. You plunge 

 into one of the lanes in the tall grass, which at once srmts the 

 surroundings from your view. You tread on a slimy, black, damp 

 soil, composed of the birds' dung. The stench is overpowering, 

 the yelling of the birds perfectly terrifying I can call it nothing 

 else. You lose the path, or perhaps are bent from the first in 

 making for some spot on the other side of the rookery. In the 

 path only a few droves of Penguins on their way to and from the 

 water are encountered, and these stampede out of your way into 

 the side alleys. Now you are, the instant you leave the road, on 

 the actual breeding ground. The nests are placed so thickly 

 that you cannot help treading on eggs and young birds at almost 

 every step. A parent bird sits on each nest, with its sharp beak 

 erect and open ready to bite, yelling savagely ' Caa, caa, urr, urr,' 

 its red eye gleaming and its plumes at half-cock and quivering 

 with rage. No sooner are your legs within reach than they are 

 furiously bitten, often by two or three birds at once that is, if 

 you have not got on strong leather gaiters, as on the first occasion 

 of visiting a rookery you probably have not. At first you try to 

 avoid the nests, but soon find that is impossible; then, maddened 

 almost by the pain, stench, and noise, you have recourse to 

 brutality. Thump, thump, goes your stick, and at each blow goes 



