ich is rarefied by its animal heat, and contributes greatly to its
buoyancy.

The gannet is a handsome bird, larger by measurement, though not
heavier, than the largest gulls,--snow-white, save the outer third of
the wing, which is jet-black,--his wings long and sharp,--his motion in
the air not rapid, but singularly home-like and easy. He is unable to
rise from level ground, but must launch himself from a height, probably
owing to his shortness and inelasticity of leg and length of wing; nor,
indeed, can he rise from the water, unless somewhat assisted by its
motion. And this suggests a beautiful provision of Nature: the wings of
all true swimmers and divers are short and-round, to facilitate their
ascent from the water.

If surprised on land, the gannet neither attempts to fly nor offers
resistance, conscious of helplessness; but when attacked in the water,
where he is more at home, he will fight fiercely. Nuttall, with grange
contradiction, says, that, though web-footed, they do not swim,--yet
elsewhere speaks of looking down from a cliff and seeing them "swimming
and chasing their prey." I cannot testify.

After lingering an hour or two, "breaking the Sabbath," the schooner
proceeded,--the wind freshening during the afternoon, and the Gulf
growing choppy, as if it could not quite suffer us to pass without
exhibiting somewhat of that peevish quality for which it has an evil
renown. It was but a passing wrinkle of ill-humor, however,--a feeble
hint of what it could do, if it chose.

And when we recrossed it, two and a half months later, it chose!

* * * * *

_June 14._ "Land ho! Labrador!"

"Where? Where is it?" cry a chorus of voices.

"There, a little on the larboard bow."

A long, silent, rather disconcerted gaze.

"I don't see it," says one.

"Nor I."

"There,--there,"--pointing,--"close down to the sea."

"You don't mean that cloud?"

"I mean that land."

"Humph!"

There is something occult about this art of seeing land. The landsman's
eyesight is good; he prides himself a little upon it. He looks; and for
him the land isn't there. The seaman's eyesight is no better; he looks,
and for him the land is so plainly in view that he cannot understand
your failure to see it. He is secretly pleased, though,--and may pretend
impatience in order to conceal his pleasure. I have sailed in all,
perhaps, a distance equal to that around the earth, a good proportion of
it alon