These words were greeted with some murmurs of satisfaction, but not with cheers, except those of Hurliguerly the boatswain, and Endicott the cook, which found no echo.
On the 13th of January a conversation took place between the boatswain and myself of a nature to justify my anxiety concerning the temper of our crew.
The men were at breakfast, with the exception of Drap and Stern. The schooner was cutting the water under a stiff breeze. I was walking between the fore and main masts, watching the great flights of birds wheeling about the ship with deafening clangour, and the petrels occasionally perching on our yards. No effort was made to catch or shoot them; it would have been useless cruelty, since their oily and stringy flesh is not eatable.
At this moment Hurliguerly approached me, looked attentively at the birds, and said,—
"I remark one thing, Mr. Jeorling."
"What is it, boatswain?"
"That these birds do not fly so directly south as they did up to the present. Some of them are setting north."
"I have noticed the same fact."
"And I add, Mr. Jeorling, that those who are below there will come back without delay."
"And you conclude from this?"
"I conclude that they feel the approach of winter."
"Of winter?"
"Undoubtedly."
"No, no, boatswain; the temperature is so high that the birds can't want to get to less cold regions so prematurely."
"Oh! prematurely, Mr. Jeorling."
