Ocean Wanderers 



at night. It was Bunker Hill Day, splendid 

 weather, and a line, fair breeze. We got an early 

 start, and in three-quarters ot an hour, sailing 

 " wing-a-wing," we were off the island, a grim- 

 looking rock, covered with green-sward on top, a 

 good halt-mile long, and rather narrow. One ot 

 the crew rowed us ashore on the less precipitous 

 western side. Even there it was not much sheltered, 

 as the mainland was twenty miles away, and even in 

 calm weather the sea broke not a little on the rocks. 

 However, watching our chance, we managed to 

 scramble out on a shelving ledge, immediately after 

 which the retreating wave carried back the boat. 

 The schooner departed tor the lishing ground, while 

 we scrambled up the rocks and bank to the summit 

 of the island. 



No sooner had we reached the turt than I 

 noticed a little burrow, and my triend at the same 

 moment another, and there they were all around us. 

 Selecting one, I pulled up the sod with my hands. 

 The hole did not go straight down, but ran along 

 iusi below the roots ot the grass, tor about a couple 

 of feet. Then it broadened out into a sort of 

 pocket, in which, on a slight lining of grass and 

 leathers, sat a Leach's Petrel on a single white eee. 

 The bird seemed dazed by the sudden glare of day, 

 and did not make any effort to escape. When I 

 took hold of it, it made just the least bit of a 

 struggle, and squirted out trom its nostrils on my 

 hands a few drops ot yellowish oil that gave torth a 

 peculiar, disagreeable odor. When I opened my 

 hand, it did not make any attempt to fly off. 

 When placed on the ground, it merely squatted, but 



I2S 



