i 9 4 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



bows into a curling wave-crest, and, riding down 

 the trough, were on the wing and gone. 



They went straight into the night and as if to 

 meet the coming storm. For a keen wet wind 

 was blowing. The decks were cleared and empty 

 except for myself and the officer who leaned hard 

 against the wind as he paced his watch. It was 

 an inscrutable, fearful night into which I was far- 

 ing. My feet were strange to the pitching deck ; 

 my spirit was not at home on the sea. But the, 

 birds — it was their path I was following — where 

 in this wild night of waves and coming storm 

 had they gone? 



Down in the black water the porpoises were 

 leaping. Off on the sea there was nothing, noth- 

 ing but the closing circle of storm, and I was 

 turning from the rail with a shiver, when, far out 

 on the gray chop, I caught sight of the petrels, 

 rising and falling with the heave and sag of the 

 sea. 



Did they sleep on the sea, I wonder? Not 

 that night, perhaps, as this was the nesting-sea- 

 son, but here night and day they pass the larger 

 part of their lives. All through that long night I 

 dreamed of them rising and falling on the chop. 



