Mr. A. Newton on the Birds of Spitsbergen. 207 



the shore, so as to make it almost doubtful whether we should 

 be able to get away oext day. 



On the 12th we were, after all, able to run the blockade of the 

 ice without much difficulty, and about noon we started for the 

 eastward. Little occurred that need here be noted. After some 

 hours of hard pulling, we rounded a low barren point, whereon 

 stood an old hut, built by the Russians in days gone by, and 

 now tenanted by three shipwrecked Norwegians, who had been 

 there some weeks and, by killing Reindeer, managed to exist 

 without great apparent hardship. We then found ourselves 

 in a bay, shaped something like this, ^, and called, I believe. 

 Advent Bay. Here, again. Deer were seen ; and while some 

 of the party went after them, I proceeded to choose a point 

 for camping. Towards the inner curve of the bay, the water 

 shoaled very much, and it was not easy to find a channel for 

 our heavily-laden boats. At last we succeeded in getting to 

 land, disturbing, as we approached, a great many Eiders, and 

 two flocks of Brent-Geese; at the latter of which I had an 

 ineffectual shot with a rifle. Just before we turned in for what, 

 in other latitudes, is called the night, we observed a thick fog 

 slowly creeping up the sound; and during our hours of rest 

 we heard the ice crashing and growling, as it was driven into 

 our shallow bay by the strong north-west wind. Next morn- 

 ing we awoke to find everything obscured by a dense fog, and 

 the bay full of heavy ice — two circumstances that did not pro- 

 mise well for our return to the yacht, from which we were now 

 some thirty miles distant. However, we prepared to start, and 

 while we were striking the tent and packing up, a bird flew 

 past, which had all the appearance of a Turnstone [Strepsilas 

 interpres). I marked it down by the side of a pool of brackish 

 water, and having pointed it out to one of my companions, 

 requested him to get it for me, as I was otherwise engaged at 

 the time. He went off, and presently I heard him shoot ; but 

 the supposed Turnstone had performed a trick which, I suppose, 

 on the other side of the Atlantic would be termed "playing 

 'possum," and the victim of my friend's shot was nothing more 

 than a Purple Sandpiper. Thus I lost the chance of indubitably 

 adding this cosmopolitan species to the Spitsbergen Ornis. 



