THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 



Reddy stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Surely 

 a big bass had taken my bait and hooked him- 

 self. Never had I felt so heavy and strong a bass! 

 The line swished back and forth; my pole bent 

 more and more as I lifted. The water boiled and 

 burst in a strange splash. Then! a big duck 

 flew, as if by magic, right out from before us. 

 So amazed was I that he nearly pulled the pole 

 out of my hands. Reddy yelled wildly. The duck 

 broke the line and sped away. . . . That moment 

 will never be forgotten. It took us so long to 

 realize that the duck had swallowed my minnow, 

 hooked himself, and happened to be under the 

 surface when we returned. 



So the point of my main story, like that of the 

 above, is about how I set out to catch fish, and, 

 failing, found for such loss abundant recompense. 



Manuel and Augustine, my Indian sailors, em- 

 barked with me in a boat for lie Island of the Dead. 

 Millions of marine creatures swarmed in the laby- 

 rinthine waterways. Then, as we neared the land, 

 " Rabihorcadal" exclaimed Manuel, pointing to a 

 black cloud hovering over the island. 



■ As we approached the sandy strip I made it out 

 to be about half a mile long, lying only a few feet 

 above the level of the sea. Hundreds of great, black 

 birds flew out to meet us and sailed over the boat, 

 a sable-winged, hoarse-voiced crowd. When we 

 beached I sprang ashore and ran up the sand to the 

 edge of green. The whole end of the island was 

 white with birds— large, beautiful, snowy birds with 

 shiny black bars across their wings. 



19 



