The Sea Birds' Fortress 239 



light breeze, and the sun was fast sinking to the horizon, illuminating the great 

 red cliffs of Bird Rock, lined with white rows of nesting Gannets; we were still 

 some distance from it at sunset, and we were not anxious to pick our way among 

 its dangerous rocks after dark. But our skipper was equal to the task when the 

 exciting moment came; as the great cliffs towered above us in the moonlight, 

 we saw a lantern coming down the ladder to show us where to land, and we ran 

 in among the thundering breakers; there was a crash which brought us to our 

 feet in terror, as we struck an unseen rock, but the next wave carried us over 

 it and landed us among the rocks and flying spray. We were overboard in an 

 instant, struggling in the surf, for the boat was rapidly filling, as wave after wave 

 broke over us. A few moments of rapid work served to unload our baggage and 

 attach a stout line to the boat, the signal was passed aloft, and the powerful 

 steam winch above hauled her up high and dry. We then had time to shake 

 hands with our genial host, the keeper of the lighthouse, who had been watch- 

 ing us ever since we left Bryon Island. Loading our baggage in the crate to be 

 hoisted up, we climbed up the long ladders, among clouds of screaming seabirds, 

 over a hundred feet to the top of the rock, where we found a hearty welcome 

 awaiting us from Captain Bourque and his family. No doubt they were glad 

 to see us, for we were the only people who had landed on the rock since last 

 November, excepting some fishermen who visited them in May. It is a lonely 

 life they lead, but they are brave and cheerful souls, and know how to make 

 the best of the surroundings. They live well in spite of the fact that their market- 

 man calls but twice a year. Of course, there were many questions to be asked 

 and much news to be discussed, for which their eager minds were hungry. After 

 supper the festivities began; a graphophone was brought out and a whole trunk 

 full of songs and other music reeled off; one of the girls could play the accordion, 

 which did duty as an orchestra while the rest of us danced, sang and made merry 

 well into the night. It was a great event for them, and we almost forgot that we 

 had come to photograph birds. 



But the morning found us out bright and early, moments were golden and 

 not to be wasted in sleep, the wind was blowing a gale, as predicted, and clouds 

 of seabirds were drifting about the rock in a bewildering maze, ten thousand of 

 them in all. There were great white Gannets sailing on long, powerful wings 

 tipped with black, clouds of snowy Kittiwake Gulls hovering in the air, hundreds 

 of swift-winged Murres and Razor-billed Auks darting out from the cliffs, and 

 quaint little parties of curious Puffins perched on the rocks. There was a con- 

 stant Babel of voices, the mingled cries of the varied throngs, deep, guttural 

 croaks and hoarse grunts from the Gannets, a variety of soft purring notes from 

 the Murres, and sharp piercing cries from the active Kittiwakes, distinctly pro- 

 nouncing the three syllables for which they are named, as if beseeching us to 

 "keep away" from their precious nests. 



Climbing down the ladders to one of the broader ledges, I fired away plate 

 after plate, with a 'Reflex' camera, at the constant stream of Gannets floating 



