A PECULIAR PEOPLE il 
has proved that some at least return to the same 
rookeries year after year to breed; and here we are 
out of our depth at once when we think of the 
mysterious nostalgia that brings these flightless 
birds back to their cradle over hundreds of miles of 
trackless sea. When they get agoing on the ice 
they toddle hurriedly, one hundred and thirty steps 
per minute, six inches at a step, two-thirds of a mile 
per hour. “In the still air their little wheezy respir- 
ation could be heard distinctly, and they seemed 
to be somewhat out of breath.” Every now and 
then they suddenly flop forwards on their breasts 
and take to tobogganing at the same rate as before, 
using their legs as propellers. By the end of the 
month the rookery at Cape Adare was crammed 
with some three-quarters of a million birds. 
The hens take possession of the old stone-nests 
or scoop out new hollows in the ground, and wait— 
sometimes rather forlornly—for proposals. A cock, 
struggling against the drowsiness engendered by the 
long journey, rouses himself to action, and makes 
as if to place an imaginary stone at the hen’s feet, 
“a most obvious piece of dumb show.” But the 
hen often answers never a word, and it requires a 
duel between rival cocks to arouse her interest. 
The combatants lean their breasts against one 
another and rain in blows with their flippers. In 
many cases blood is drawn, but Dr. Levick never 
saw a fatal encounter. During the first days of 
wedded life the cock has continually to make good 
his claim by driving off interlopers, but after the 
