“May 9th.

“We did the first work of the season to-day.  At the west end of the islands is a chasm, through which the wind whistles; the waves, rushing in from both sides, meet at the centre and leap wildly into the air.  Across this chasm we threw a light suspension bridge about forty feet in length and two in width; one crosses it by the aid of a life-line.  On the further rock the birds are nesting in large numbers, and to-morrow we begin the wholesale robbery of their nests.

“When the bridge was completed, being pretty well fagged and quite famished, we returned to the cabin, lunched heartily, and spent the afternoon in highly successful rabbit chasing.  Plenty of stew for all of us.  If Robinson Crusoe had been cast ashore on this island, I wonder how he would have lived?  As it is, the rabbits sometimes succeed in escaping us, and without powder and shot it would be quite impossible for one or two persons to bag them.  We are beginning to lose faith in the delightful romances of our youth, and to realize what a desert island is.

“May 10th.

“In front of us we each carry a large sack in which to deposit eggs; our boots are clumsy, and the heavy nails that fill their soles make them heavy and difficult to walk in.  We also carry a strong staff to aid us in climbing the rugged slopes.  About us is nothing but grey, weather-stained rocks; there are few paths, and these we cannot follow, for the sea-birds, though so unused to the presence of man, are wary and shy of his tracks; the day’s work has not proved profitable.  Few of us gathered any eggs; one who was more successful, and had secured enough to make it extremely difficult for him to scale the rocks, slipped, fell on his face, and scrambled all his store.  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.