My First Offence 359 



And now to return with some relief to my dear, 

 merry, busy little friend, the Cape Pigeon, or Pintado 

 Petrel, although I cannot feel at home with him under 

 any other name than the first. Shame upon me, I 

 first made his intimate acquaintance when outward 

 bound in the 'Western Belle' to Bombay, so many 

 years ago that recalling the date makes me feel quite 

 old. I had only known him to look at for a few days 

 when there fell a stark calm, in which he and dozens 

 of his kind flitted joyously about us, exhibiting every 

 graceful poise of their trim little bodies, and now and 

 then showing what they could do in the way of diving. 

 With wide-eyed wonder I watched a couple who had 

 swooped upon a pork-bone I had flung overboard, 

 pursue it down through the limpid blue, their wings 

 widespread, flashing back the sapphire light, and a 

 whole stream of turquoise bubbles ascending as they 

 sped downwards. They rose unsuccessful, the prize 

 they thought of securing was too hard, too heavy for 

 their efforts, but with hardly a pause they sprang into 

 the air again and recommenced their mazy whirl about 

 us as if entirely unconcerned at the frustration of 

 their keen desires. We have a monopoly, apparently, 

 of the foolish occupation of fretting over what might 

 have been. 



It was then that an evil counsellor whispered to 

 me that I might, an I chose, catch one of those dear 

 desirable birds and have it for my own. Not only 

 so, but he placed the means to do this Hi-deed 

 in my hand — a ball of roping twine, a little hook 

 attached thereto, and a piece of fat. The poop was 

 deserted save by the drowsy helmsman, the second 

 mate (my bitter enemy) having taken advantage 

 of the skipper's Sabbath siesta and the utter absence 

 of wind to go below and do something in bis berth. 



