The Cassin Auk let 



THE LANDING PLACE: SOUTHEAST FARALLON ISLAND 



Photo by the Author 



he draws the breath of want. Listen, ocean! and hearken, ye still spaces! 

 "Let me eat, let me eat, let me eat!" Anxious fathers and distraught mothers 

 hurry to and fro under the lash of the myriad hunger cry. There are some 

 sounds of satisfaction here and there, but they are drowned in the uni- 

 versal shout. Hour after hour goes by and still the fury of demand in- 

 creases. Fast and faster whirls the ministering host. High and higher 

 rolls the tumult — until tired nature (human nature) asserts herself and 

 we drop off to sleep — to awaken only when the sun is an hour high and 

 the silence of the island is unbroken save by a few quavering gulls. 



The midnight pace is still more furious on the Farallon Islands. An 

 expert might know, indeed, from certain signs at midday — a foot-worn 

 burrow-mouth, or a whitewashed rock-slide — that Cassin Auklets were 

 about, but the day-life of the island is untroubled by the thought of what 

 lies underneath entombed in silence. But sally forth at midnight, armed 

 only with a lantern, and you shall see what a teeming Nineveh is there. 

 Go where he will, one hears a roar of wings and sees a multitude of twink- 

 ling forms; and, moreover, one is kept very busy avoiding the onslaught of 

 the reckless birds, who, if not moved to fly toward the light, are stirred by 

 its presence to lawless activity which may result in any sort of collision. 

 It is no uncommon experience to be struck in the face by one of these hap- 

 less fowls, and that with a force which leaves bruises and scars. 



The Cassin Auklet seems incapable of controlling the force of its 

 flight, and the wonder is that they are not every one of them dashed in 



1470 



