t this bread
returns to us after many days!

The gulls, during incubation, seek the solitude of the Farallones, a
group of desolate and weather-beaten rocks that tower out of the fog
about thirty miles distant from the mouth of the harbor of San
Francisco. Nothing can be more magnificently desolate than the aspect of
these islands. Scarcely a green blade finds root there. They are haunted
by sea-fowl of all feathers, and the boom of the breakers mingles with
the bark of the seals that have colonized on one of the most
inaccessible islands of the group. It is here that myriads of sea-birds
rear their young, here where the very cliffs tremble in the tempestuous
sea and are drenched with bitter spray, and where ships have been cast
into the frightful jaws of caverns and speedily ground into splinters.

The profit on sea-eggs has increased from year to year, and of late
speculators have grown so venturesome that competition among
egg-gatherers has resulted in an annual naval engagement, known to the
press and the public as the egg-war. If two companies of egg-pickers
met, as was not unlikely, the contending factions fell upon one another
with their ill-gotten spoils--the islands are under the rule of the
United States, and no one has legal right to take from them so much as
one egg without license--and the defeated party was sure to retire from
the field under a heavy shower of shells, the contents of which, though
not fatal, were at least effective.

I have before me the notes of a retired egg-picker; they record the
brief experience of one who was interested in the last campaign, which,
as it terminated the career of the egg-pirates, is not without
historical interest. I will at once introduce the historian, and let him
tell his own tale.

"On Board the Schooner 'Sierra.'--
"Off the City Front.
"May 4, 1881.

"5 p.m.--There are ten of us all told; most of us strangers to one
another, but Tom and Jim, and Fred, that's me, are pals, and have been
these many months. So we conclude to hang together, and make the most of
an adventure perfectly new to each. At our feet lie our traps; blankets,
woolen shirts, heavy boots, with huge nails in the soles of them,
tobacco in bulk, a few novels, a pack of cards, and a pocket flask, for
the stomach's sake. A jolly crew, to be sure, and jollily we bade adieu
to the fellows who had gathered in the dock to wish us God-speed.
Casting loose we swung into the stream, and then sl