What a stanch, powerful vessel the little schooner seemed when compared with the fishing boats in which we had at first prepared to make the voyage! Investigation below, however, did not seem to offer prospects of undisturbed repose, and reaching Bryon late in the afternoon we decided to go ashore and apply to the island’s owner for a night’s lodging. Bryon Island, with its several thousand acres of stunted spruce and balsam forests, its rolling pasture lands and grazing cows and sheep, its precipitous red sandstone cliffs rising to a height of two hundred feet from the sea and furnishing a home for a few Murres and Puffins, is the property of one man, who purchased it from the Government for a nominal sum. A lobster cannery furnishes employment for twoscore or more itinerant fishermen and laborers, who after the lobstering season ends in July remain for the mackerel fishing. When they have departed the population of Bryon is reduced to about half a dozen families, over whom the owner reigns supreme. We landed at the cannery and wended our way over a path through the stunted forests, which at the end of a mile or more led us to the monarch’s home—a small frame house adjoining large barns. The ruler of Bryon proved to be absent in the Magdalens, but his wife made us both welcome and comfortable. We recall with pleasure the night passed beneath her roof, and the magnificent view of the setting sun from Bryon’s red cliffs. We awoke in the clouds, gulf clouds, which so often in swift-spreading banks envelop both sea and land in this region. It was ten o’clock before the sun could force its way through them, and when we returned to the Sea Gem we found the captain impatient at our tardiness. We explained that of course we did not suppose that he would care to start in so dense a fog, but he laughed at us. “Fog!” What had fog to do with sailing when the wind was favorable? Later he gave us an exhibition of seamanship in a fog which deeply engraved the name of Captain Taker on our memories. However, the wind still held from the right quarter not only for the run to the Rock, but for a landing on its one bit of beach, and we quickly hoisted sail for this last stage of a long journey. For two hours we watched the Rock grow slowly larger, then its outlines more rapidly assumed individuality, the lighthouse and other buildings on its summit took definite form, its rocky ledges were seen to be lined with rows of white Gannets, and Bird Rock became for us a reality. The storm of circling birds which Audubon described is not to be seen to-day, but enough are left to quickly exhaust our stock of adjectives. A British flag was displayed from the tall staff near the lighthouse. If it had been marked with stars and bars it would have looked less like a signal set as a greeting from the island’s keeper to his unknown guests.