I shall never forget my introduction to Korea by way of the Japan Sea. We left Hakata on the night of January 4, in a little transport chartered by the whaling company to carry meat and blubber to the markets. The vessel had a tiny, very dirty cabin aft, just large enough for three persons, into which five Japanese and myself were packed. It was bitterly cold outside and such a tremendous sea was running that the cabin deck was flooded every few moments, keeping us wet to the skin. After a twenty-three-hour trip, late in the afternoon we ran up the bay which cuts deeply into the peninsula of Korea forty miles north of Fusan. [Illustration: “At the port bow hung the dark flukes of a whale, the sight of which made me breathe hard with excitement.” ] As we pulled up to the long wharf at the whaling station I could see numbers of white-robed figures running about like goats on the hills behind the houses or standing in limp, silent groups gazing in my direction. The audience, however, regarded me with no greater curiosity than I looked at them, for the Korean is at all times peculiar in appearance and especially so when in full dress. He wears a long white coat with flaring skirts, enormous baggy trousers gathered at the ankle with a green or purple band, and atop his head is perched a ridiculous little hat made of horsehair with a sugar-loaf crown and a straight brim. The hat must be tied under his chin to keep it in place, but at times it slips over one ear and gives its wearer a singular resemblance to “Happy Hooligan.” His hair is gathered in a knot on the top of his head, and the few straggling wisps of mustache or beard which he manages to grow are as carefully tended as a rare flower. He is never seen without his long-stemmed pipe, and a tobacco pouch always dangles at his belt. The natives of Ulsan appeared to derive never ending amusement from me and my work. They were living an utterly lazy, aimless life and although they never seemed to know where the next meal was coming from they looked content and well enough fed. Numbers were always hanging about the station waiting to pick up any scraps of whale meat left by the cutters, and all day long the children, each with a little basket, poked about among the cracks in the wharf, now and then gleaning a handful of flesh and blubber, which would help to keep life within their bodies. After I had secured the skeleton of a gray whale and had piled the bones, partially cleaned, in the station yard, the Koreans descended upon them like a flock of vultures. With a knife or a bit of stone they scraped each bone, cleaning it of every ounce of meat. At first this seemed to me a splendid arrangement, but suddenly I discovered that some of the smaller bones themselves were disappearing and realized that my skeleton was slowly but surely being boiled for soup. [Illustration: