318 
FOHEST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. is, 1904. 
Inns. 
The subject of inns has always been a fascinating one. 
There are very few writers of fiction who have not had 
something to say about it. But we must go back to the 
old writers — Cervantes, Fielding, Le Sage — to find it 
treated as it deserves. Who that has dipped into litera- 
ture does not hold in fond remembrance the inns in which 
the gallant Don Quixote and his trusty squire, Sancho 
Panza, sojourned — that is, when they were not sojourning 
under the roof of heaven; or those in which the rakish 
Tom Jones pursued his gallantries ; or again those in 
which the ingenious Gil Bias met with so many adven- 
tures? Was it the touch of the master hand which made 
those inns interesting for all time? Perhaps it was. But 
we may also surmise that they were in themselves in- 
trinsically interesting. Ah, yes ! The spirit of romance, 
of adventure, was still in the world when they or their 
prototypes existed. That spirit has largely, if not wholly, 
departed. The railroad, the telegraph and the telephone 
have been too much for it. We have fallen upon dull, 
prosaic times, and the average inn of to-day is as tame 
and uninteresting as a place of business. It is all routine 
— all machine-like regularity — all stiffness and formality. 
What man who has lived habitually in hotels has not at 
times felt himself grow desperate — consumed by the de- 
vouring monotony? You never have to puff and labor 
going upstairs, nor call for hot water or coal and be kept 
waiting, nor ask for something special to eat and not be 
able to get it. With melancholy irony it seems that the 
more the modern hotel has been improved, the less inter- 
esting it is to live in. Elevators, electric bells, hot and 
cold water, telephones, radiators, etc., everything you 
want, in fact, forthcoming almost before you ask for it — 
all this has only tended to destroy a man's interest in life, 
and fill him with an unspeakable ennui. 
What shall he do, then? Is there no balm in Gilead? 
There is, if he will only seek it. Let him, I say, turn 
sportsman — leaving the fashionable hostelries to the 
voluptuous or degenerate — and hie him to the little rustic 
inns in the nooks and corners of the country. There, I 
warrant, his interest in life will revive, for there he will 
encounter things which will make him realize that he is 
not a mere plant or vegetable, but a sentient being. 
Let us suppose him, then, taking my advice. Here we 
find him on a cold, bleak November evening arrived at 
the Pine Log Inn in Dewville Centre. He has driven ten 
miles from the railway station, and is shivering like a 
dog in a wet sack. How grateful and suggestive, there- 
fore, the name of the inn appears to him as he enters. He 
meets old Noah Noakes, the proprietor, and immediately 
asks for the fire. "Wal," replies Noah, "I reckon there 
ain't none except in the kitchen." 
"What! No fire in the parlor in such weather as this?" 
"Huh! You don't call this weather! Wait 'till the 
rocks begin to crack, mister." 
"Well, I'm chilled almost to death, and I must get 
warm. Which is the way to the kitchen?" 
"I reckon it ain't no use goin' there, as the ole woman 
is busy abaout the stove. But, say, mebbe it might do 
you good to see the pine log." 
He leads the way into the parlor and shows the shiver- 
ing traveler the pine log, beautifully painted to represent 
leaping flames ! 
Our friend has received his first delightful shock. 
Again we find him at the sign of the Groaning Board 
in the quail fields of Dixie. He has returned from hunt- 
ing all day, hungry as famine itself. Dinner being at 
length announced by the tinkling of a cow bell, he reaches 
the board in two strides. 
"What's this?" he says, addressing the attendant negro 
boy. "Pork and beans — again?" (He has already had 
this dish six times in succession.) 
"Yaas, suh." 
"Anything else?" 
"No, suh." 
"What ! No- beef, or mutton, or veal, or turkey, or 
goose, or 'possum, or dead dog?" 
"No, suh — but there's pickles !" 
"Well, say !" And our friend leans back reflectively 
in his chair with his hands in his pockets. 
He has received his second delightful sensation. 
Again we find him in midwinter at Hiram Hoag's 
Cosy Cottage up in Passaquagamay country. He has re- 
tired for the night — that is to say, he has made one wild 
rush from the stove, which he has been hugging all the 
evening, to his room in the second story. A little 25-cent 
kerosene lamp casts its dim, religious light about the 
room and perfumes the atmosphere. Wildly still our 
friend throws off his clothes, but, ere jumping into bed, 
he takes up an earthenware pitcher and attempts to pour 
out a glass of water. The water is frozen! With an 
exclamation of panic, he then jumps into bed, but no 
sooner has he pulled the covering over him — to wit, a 
blanket and a feather "cosy" — than he raises a terrible 
outcry. This brings Hiram puffing and inquiring to the 
door. 
"More covering — more covering !" shouts our friend. 
"Oh-a! Be that all?" quoth Hiram. "You kind o' 
skeert us. We thought you seed a ghost. Wal, I guess 
you'll have to mak' aout with the coverin' you've got fer 
t'night. Marthy's gone to bed and I dassn't disturb her. 
But you'll be warm enough afore mornin'. Good night." 
And so Hiram takes his departure, leaving our friend. 
to his thoughts. The chattering of his teeth for a while 
echoes through his chamber, but soon this noise gives 
place to a measured snore. (Oh, the advantage of a 
hunter's life when he can go to sleep even under such cir- 
cumstances!) During the night he is conscious of a 
rising storm and a crash of some sort, but he does not 
open his eyes until the dawn. Then in the dim, uncertain 
light as he surveys the scene from his pillow, he thinks 
that someone has spread an extra blanket over him while 
he slept, but presently he discovers that the window has 
blown in and it has snowed all over him ! 
He experiences his third delightful sensation. 
I might conclude here, for I think I have sufficiently 
indicated what possibilities of novel sensation there are in 
the rural inns for the blase dweller in a fashionable hotel, 
but I am tempted to mention one more experience of our 
friend by way of climax. 
Once again, then, we find him at the Halcyon Home 
on the seashore in the season of high tides and early fish- 
ing. The Home is erected upon piles, having somewhat 
the appearance of a man on stilts, and stands alone on a 
lonely beach. Its rickety build and air of desolation has 
interested our friend, but why, he asks himself, has it 
been called the Halcyon Home? He can't answer the 
question, and he doesn't dare ask the proprietor, who has 
all the appearance of a pirate retired from business. How- 
ever, he has come there for fishing, and so long as he 
gets that he isn't going to bother himself about any 
abstruse questions of nomenclature. 
Well, at 9 o'clock he takes a candle, and ascending a 
ladder seeks his couch. This he finds is in the form of 
a bunk, such as the pirate (if he had been one) must have 
often lain in and naturally selected when he set up his 
house on shore. Our friend, being now a good deal of a 
philosopher, turns in without grumbling. But not to 
sleep. The wind, which has been freshening all the even- 
ing, has now assumed the proportions of a gale, and the 
tide has gradually risen until it is raging around and 
beneath the Halcyon Home. Our friend is almost 
deafened with the din, and he is swaying in his bunk 
almost as if he were on board a ship, but he calmly 
smokes his pipe and thinks. He is trying, in fact, to re- 
solve that question in regard to the naming of his tem- 
porary abode. Suddenly he remembers that "halcyon" is 
the name the ancient Greeks gave to the kingfisher, which 
in serene weather built its nest (or was supposed to build 
it) on the bosom of the ocean ; hence, by analogy, halcyon, 
or happy days, or happy anything. No sooner has our 
friend remembered this than a fierce gust of wind, ac- 
companied by a tremendous wave, strikes the Halcyon 
Home and actually raises it off its foundations. Our 
friend is thrown from his bunk, but he gathers himself up 
and cries in triumph, his voice rising above the shrieking 
of the gale : 
"I have it — I have it ! We are afloat like the kingfisher. 
It is indeed a halcyon home!" Francis Moonan, 
New York, October. 
Bird Catching in the Faroe Islands. 
Bird catching as it is carried on in the Faroe Islands 
may be said to be absolutely unique. On some of the 
islands it consitutes, even at the present day, a principal 
source of living for the people. Such, for instance, is 
the case on Dimurr and on Mikines, where some thirty 
families dwell; 80,000 puffins besides other birds, and 
many hundreds of gannets are annually taken. 
Of the twenty-four islands of which Faroe consists 
only those as a rule which have one or more sides 
facing the open sea possess perpendicular cliffs. Some 
of these are barren and useless, there being no shelves 
and ledges upon which the birds can lay their eggs; 
others are more or less so from having been severely 
harried. But the real bird cliff swarms with life from 
top to bottom, and with their grand surroundings and 
their myriads of inhabitants filling the air they present 
an attractive spectacle. 
Often they assume the most remarkable forms and 
configurations; and although it does not possess a very 
large bird population, one of the most extraordinary in 
this respect is Vestmannabjorg, a spot well worth 
visiting. 
What may be described as real bird cliffs are the 
precipitous rocks interspersed with steep slopes of 
greensward, lundaland, as it is called, where the puffins 
build. 
One cannot but admire the daring and courage of the 
islanders, when, hanging by a rope, they carry on their 
work on the face of the precipices; and again when, 
having unfastened the line from the body, they climb 
from ledge to ledge over intervening spaces where there 
is barely foothold. To this apparently somewhat fool- 
hardy mode of procedure, however, comparatively few 
accidents by falling are due, and especially is this the 
case in connection with faste, that is, firm rock, or cliff 
of a secure character. The lose is, of course, less re- 
liable, but the accomplished cragsman, when being let 
down by the rope, will always note the more uncertain 
protuberances and stones, and kick them away on his 
downward progress. Should he not take this precau- 
tion, there is always the danger that the friction of the 
line, after he has passed, may have the effect, and he 
may be killed by the falling debris. And so when 
clambering; without a rope, he must advance with the 
greatest circumspection. An entirely different matter 
are disruptions arising from natural causes. A portion 
of rock may be looked upon with suspicion and avoided 
in consequence, but it may nevertheless remain in its 
place for hundreds of years; while on the other hand, 
a mass considered perfectly safe may come away any 
day without warning. 
A few years ago a very extensive slip took place. The 
rock on the upper part of the bird cliff came away, 150 
fathoms from the foot, and fell into the water below 
with a sound that was heard by the fishermen many 
miles out at sea. Besides destroying human life, such 
occurrences cause considerable economic loss to the 
owners of the bird colonies, as the smooth face of 
rock which is left cannot again be inhabited. By 
courage and presence of mind the cragsman overcomes 
many dangers, but even these qualities cannot protect 
him against such treacherous surprises, and the most 
experienced may fall a victim. The loose rock is 
treacherous enough, but most treacherous of all is the 
so-called lundaland, which has slipped away into the 
abyss with many a fine fellow. 
On the bird cliffs the grass quickly takes root on the 
slopes which diverge slightly from the perpendicular, 
and soil accumulates rapidly around it. When this has 
attained a certain depth, the puffins come, make their 
holes and take up their abodes in it. When these have 
entered into complete possession, the cragsmen come, 
one or more in company. Quietly they set about their 
work, capturing one bird after the other by thrusting 
their arms into the holes, seizing them upon the nests 
and pulling them forth. This loosens the soil and puts 
it in motion, and instinctively the men seize hold of 
the grass; but if the whole mass has been detached, they 
are hopelessly lost — a whizz through the air and the 
brave cragsmen have performed their last journey. 
Again the soil accumulates in the same spot, again come 
the puffins and build, and again come the cragsmen, and 
again the same story of disaster and death is repeated. 
The more uneven such a place and the greater the number 
of irregularities which it possesses, the better of course 
is the hold which the soil takes, and the safer the lunda- 
land becomes. 
Before describing the various methods of capture, it 
may be well to examine the bird cliff and its inhabitants. 
We begin from the foot, where the cormorants, the 
shags, the black guillemots and the auks sit; only the 
two last named really belong to the cliff, the others 
have their nests elsewhere. Ten or fifteen fathoms 
above the water and upward — well, dear at any rate 
of the seas, which in summer even in stormy weather 
never attain the height they do in winter — there are the 
breeding places of the guillemots, the most important 
and cahracteristic of the Faroe cliff birds. They take 
up their abodes in hundreds of thousands upon the 
ledges of rock, and there each lays its single egg, with 
the pretty green ground color and the black spots. The 
eggs, of which two are never found together, are ex- 
actly alike, and according to the cragsmen they are so 
strong that if one falls sharp end first from the cliff 
into a boat, it will make a hole in the boat rather than 
break. The guillemots place their eggs far back on the 
ledge, close to the perpendicular rock, and they sit 
with their backs toward the sea, thus presenting the ap- 
pearance of a black line. The younger and non-breed- 
ing individuals on the other hand sit further out on the 
ledge, facing seaward, and forming a white line. Upon 
small and narrow shelves amid the guillemot colonies 
are the breeding places of the kittiwake. It is not 
much sought after on the real bird cliffs, where it does not 
occur in such large numbers as on a tract of rock in- 
habited by this species of gull only. Its edible quali- 
ties, moreover, are not good; and it builds singly, 
which renders its capture troublesome. Neither is it 
a welcome guest on the bird rock, where it has a tend- 
ency to expel the guillemots by taking possession of 
their breeding places. Then there are the auks, build- 
ing singly all about the cliff in holes and depressions; 
along with the guillemots they belong to the black- 
footed kind, and are not included in the division of the 
spoil, becoming, according to ancient custom, the prop- 
erty of the individual captor. The fulmar, which is a 
comparatively new visitor to these parts, as it only put 
in an appearance about a generation ago, has its breed- 
ing places on the upper part of the cliff, which was 
formerly unoccupied by the other birds, on account, no 
doubt, of the inconvenience attaching to ascending so 
high. When the fulmars came they found the lower 
portions of the rock occupied, and they were therefore 
obliged to be content with the upper story, so to speak. 
They are abomination to the original inhabitants, over 
whom they cast quantities of filthy oily matter to their 
great discomfort and inconvenience. There would ap- 
pear to be a continuous immigration of these birds, as, 
although each lays only one egg, they are increasing 
rapidly in numbers, and in all likelihood they will shortly 
dispossess the guillemots to a great extent of their 
breeding places — to the disgust of the owners of the 
cliffs. 
We now leave the rocky cliff in order to investigate 
lundaland. It gleams white everywhere, as if strewn 
with snowballs; and this effect is produced by the white 
breasts of the puffins that sit there looking out to the 
sea. Everywhere the greensward is pierced with their 
holes— furnished moat frequently with two openings, 
