BLACK-FOOTED ALBATROSS. 



64 JOHN BURROUGHS 



I must not forget the albatross that found us out and 

 followed our ship when we had been but a few hours at 

 sea, wheeling around us close to the water, coming and 



going, now on one side, 

 now on the other, slanting 

 and curving, and all on 

 straight unbending wing. 

 Its toilless, effortless flight 

 and its air of absolute 

 leisure were very curious, 

 strange, solitary, weird — it seemed like the spirit of the 

 deep taking visible form and seeking to weave some spell 

 upon us or lure us away to destruction. Never before 

 had I seen flying so easy and spontaneous — not an action, 

 not a thought, not an effort, but a dream. What a con- 

 trast to the flight of the Arctic tern which we first saw in 

 Yakutat Bay, a bird with long sickle-shaped wings with 

 which it fairly rept the air. The flight of the albatross 

 was a series of long, graceful strokes, unlike that of any 

 other bird I have seen. 



About noon on the 24th amid fog and light rain, we 

 sighted Middleton Island on our starboard, when the 

 ship turned her head sharply northward toward the en- 

 trance to the sound. In a couple of hours we ran out 

 of the fog into clear skies and were soon steaming across 

 the great sound in warm sunshine. Our route was a de- 

 vious one: past islands and headlands, then over the im- 

 mense expanse of the open water with a circle of tower- 

 ing snow-capped mountains far off along the horizon, 

 then winding through arms and straits, close to tree- 

 tufted islands and steep spruce-clad mountains, now look- 

 ing between near-by dark forested hills upon a group of 

 distant peaks white as midwinter, then upon broad low 

 wooded shores with glimpses of open meadow-like glades 

 among the trees, suggesting tender grass and grazing 



