s to discharge her cargo of tin and copper.
I meant to stay in the island for a few weeks of the fine season,
and from thence set out for Connecticut. Nevertheless, I did not
fail to take into due account the share that belongs to chance in
human affairs, for it is wise, as Edgar Poe has said, always "to
reckon with the unforeseen, the unexpected, the inconceivable, which
have a very large share (in those affairs), and chance ought always
to be a matter of strict calculation."

Each day I walked about the port and its neighbourhood. The sun was
growing strong. The rocks were emerging by degrees from their winter
clothing of snow; moss of a wine-like colour was springing up on the
basalt cliffs, strips of seaweed fifty yards long were floating on
the sea, and on the plain the lyella, which is of Andean origin, was
pushing up its little points, and the only leguminous plant of the
region, that gigantic cabbage already mentioned, valuable for its
anti-scorbutic properties, was making its appearance.

I had not come across a single land mammal--sea mammals swarm in
these waters--not even of the batrachian or reptilian kinds. A few
insects only--butterflies or others--and even these did not fly,
for before they could use their wings, the atmospheric currents
carried the tiny bodies away to the surface of the rolling waves.

"And the _Halbrane_" I used to say to Atkins each morning.

"The _Halbrane_, Mr. Jeorling," he would reply with complacent
assurance, "will surely come into port to-day, or, if not to-day,
to-morrow."

In my rambles on the shore, I frequently routed a crowd of
amphibians, sending them plunging into the newly released waters.
The penguins, heavy and impassive creatures, did not disappear at my
approach; they took no notice; but the black petrels, the puffins,
black and white, the grebes and others, spread their wings at sight
of me.

One day I witnessed the departure of an albatross, saluted by the
very best croaks of the penguins, no doubt as a friend whom they
were to see no more. Those powerful birds can fly for two hundred
leagues without resting for a moment, and with such rapidity that
they sweep through vast spaces in a few hours. The departing
albatross sat motionless upon a high rock, at the end of the bay of
Christmas Harbour, looking at the waves as they dashed violently
against the beach.

Suddenly, the bird rose with a great sweep into the air, its claws
folded beneath it, its head