ration: SCENE ON THE SOUTH ESK RIVER, TASMANIA.]

CHAPTER VI.

We embark at Hobart by steamship, for Southern New Zealand. After
following the course of the river Derwent for a distance of twelve
miles, its mouth is reached, where the ship's course is a little south
of east, the dull green of the waters on soundings rapidly changing to
the navy blue of the ocean. The prevailing winds here are from the west,
which with the Australian current and the Antarctic drift, are in our
favor, so the ship speeds cheerily on her way.

The tedium of the voyage is beguiled by watching the graceful movements
of the wandering albatross, the fateful bird of nautical romance, which
is sure to be seen in considerable numbers below the thirtieth parallel
of south latitude. The peculiarities of this sea-bird's flight are a
constant marvel, for it scarcely ever plies its wings, but literally
sails upon the wind in any desired course. We wonder what secret power
can so propel him for hundreds of rods with an upward trend at the
close. If for a single moment he lights upon the water to seize some
object of food, there is a trifling exertion evinced in rising again,
until he is a few feet above the waves, when once more he sails with or
against the wind, upon outspread, immovable wings. With no apparent
inclination or occasion for pugnacity, the albatross is yet armed with a
tremendous beak, certainly the most terrible of its kind possessed by
any of the feathered tribe. It is from six to eight inches long, and
ends in a sharp-pointed hook extremely strong and hard. It has been
humorously said that if he pleased, the albatross might breakfast at the
Cape of Good Hope and dine in New York, so wonderfully swift is he in
flight and so powerful on the wing.

At night the phosphorescence of these lonely waters lying just north of
the Antarctic Circle, between Tasmania and New Zealand, is indeed
marvellous. Liquid fire is the only term which will properly express
their flame-like appearance. If a bucketful is drawn and deposited upon
deck, while it remains still it appears dark and like any other water,
but when agitated it emits scintillations of light like the stars. A
drop of this water placed under a microscope is found to be teeming with
living and active creatures. If we suspend a muslin bag for a few
moments over the ship's side, with the mouth open, then draw it up and
permit it to drain for a few seconds, placing what remains in a