n the northern half of the Pacific Ocean this north-easterly
current is called the Kuroshiwo, or "Black Salt." It skirts the coast of
Japan and runs right across to Canada. This current is one of the
favourite haunts of the albatross.

He knows further that the arrangement of winds and currents is just the
same in the Atlantic. There, however, the current running north-east is
called the Gulf Stream, and it is the warm water of this stream, coming
from the equator, which makes the climate of north-western Europe so
mild, and prevents even the northernmost fiords of Norway from freezing
in winter.

[Illustration: THE SOUTH SEAS.]

Meanwhile the albatross is on its course westwards, careless of winds
and currents. He heeds not the hardest storm, and, indeed, where could
he hide himself from its violence? His dwelling is the air. The sea is
high, and he skims just above the surface, rising to meet each wave and
descending into every trough, and the tips of his wings seem to dip into
the foam. The great ocean seems dreadfully dreary and deserted. The sun
glistens on the spindrift, and the albatross is reflected in the
smooth, bright roof of waves above the fairy crystal grottoes in the
depths.

He rises to see whether the island he is thinking about is visible above
the horizon. Beneath him he sees the dark, white-tipped, roaring sea.
From the west, bluish-black rain-clouds sweep up and open their
sluice-gates. Is the albatross hindered in his flight by the rain which
pelts violently down on his back and wings? Well, yes, he must certainly
be delayed, but he can foretell the weather with certainty enough to
keep clear, and he is swift enough on the wing to make his escape when
overtaken by rain. And he can always descend, fold his pinions, and rest
dancing on the waves.

The rain over, he flies higher up again and now sees Easter Island,
which from an immense depth rises above the water, terribly lonely in
the great ocean. On a sloping beach he sees several monuments of stone,
thirty feet high, in the form of human heads. They mark graves, and are
memorials of a long-vanished settlement. Now there are only about 150
natives on Easter Island, and even these are doomed to extinction. Three
white men live on the island, but it is long since news was heard of
them, for no vessel has touched there for several years. Of other living
things only rats, goats, fowls, and sea birds exist on the island.

At some distance to the