e. His plight was laughable, but
he was scarcely in the mood to relish it, as he washed his sack and
blouse in cold water, while we indulged in cards.

[Illustration: Murre on their Nests, Farallone Islands]

"May 11th.

"Built another bridge over a gap where the sea rushes, and which we call
the _Jordan_. If the real Jordan is as hard to cross, heaven help us.
Eggs not very plentiful as yet; we are rather early in the season, or
the crop is late this year. More rabbits in the p.m.; more wind, more
fog; and at night, pipes, cards, and a few choruses that sound strange
and weird in the fire lights on this lonely island.

"May 12th.

"Eggs are so very scarce. The foreman advises our resting for a day. We
lounge about, looking off upon the sea; sometimes a sail blows by us,
but our islands are in such ill-repute with mariners, they usually give
us a wide berth, as they call it. A little homesick towards dusk; wonder
how the boys in San Francisco are killing time; it is time that is
killing us, out here in the wind and fog.

"May 13th.

"Have been hunting abalones all day, and found but a baker's dozen;
their large, shallow shells are glued to the rock at the first approach
of danger, and unless we can steal upon these queer fish unawares, and
thrust something under their shells before they have shut down upon the
rock, it is almost impossible to pry them open. Some of the boys are
searching in the sea up to their waists--hard work when one considers
how tough the abalone is, and how tasteless.

"May 14th.

"This morning all our egg-pickers were at work; took in the west end,
only the high rock beyond the first bridge; gathered about forty dozen
eggs, and got them safely back to camp; in some nests there were three
eggs, and these we did not gather, fearing they were stale. In the p.m.
tried to collect dry grass enough to make a thin mattress for my bunk;
barely succeeded; am more than ever convinced that desert islands are
delusions.

"May 15th.

"It being Sunday, we rest from our labors; by way of varying the
monotony of island life, we climb up to the lighthouse, 300 feet above
sea level. The path is zig-zag across the cliff, and is extremely
fatiguing. While ascending, a large stone rolled under my foot, and
went thundering down the cliff. Jim, who was in the rear, heard it
coming, and dodged; it missed his head by about six inches. Had it
struck him, he would have been hurled into the sea that boiled bel