In the low
bushes, one might fancy there was one sacred spot not wholly spoiled by
the injudicious use of too much sea water.
The vocal expressions of Duck Island were in keeping with its general
appearance, melancholy and depressing. The sepulchral boom of the
bittern, the shriek of the curlew, the scream of the passing brent, the
wrangling of quarrelsome teal, the sharp, querulous protest of the
startled crane, were all beyond powers of written expression. The aspect
of these mournful fowls was not at all cheerful or inspiring, as the
boat containing the Irishman and lieutenant approached the island.
Through the gathering gloom of night could be seen a tall blue heron,
standing midleg deep in water, obviously catching cold in his reckless
disregard for wet feet and consequences. The mournful curlew, the
dejected plover and the low-spirited snipe, who sought to join him in
his suicidal contemplations, the raven, soaring through the air on
restless wings, croaking his melancholy complaints were not calculated
to add to the cheerfulness of the scene.
[ILLUSTRATION: He sat down on a broken mast.]
It was evident that even the inhabitants of Duck Island were not happy
in its possession and looked forward with pleasure to the season of
migration.
The boat touched the north shore, and Lieutenant Matson jumped out in
mud up to his knees, frightening some wild fowls which flew screaming
away.
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