For a sea bird the worst storms at sea have small terror. The petrels, or "Mother Gary's Chickens," as the sailors call these birds, love best, it is said, to ride upon the very crest of a giant wave during a wild storm, and the gulls are equally at home upon the bosom of the ocean. It is only when straying birds are adrift, seeking a new country, and are driven ahead of a storm toward the coast, that they are occasionally overcome by the elements. So it happened that a great storm arose and struck the colony of fleeing gulls, sweeping them inland. On their great wide wings they flew ahead of the gale, on and ever on through the blackness of the inky night, until at last the poor wind-driven things finally sighted an object big and bright, beckoning, winking to them out of the darkness; and toward this the gulls, and a host of other smaller straying birds who were swept ahead of the storm, made their way. Hopefully they neared the bright beacon. The next rough, whirling gale caught them and dashed them pitilessly against the lantern of the lighthouse, and down again upon the blackness of the cruel rocks beneath them. Fortunately. Silver Wing, the brave, giant gull, whose broad wings were still strong and unwearied, had penetrated the inky darkness with his sharp eyes. He had seen the danger ahead, and just at the right instant had swerved aside, with powerful wing strokes, just clearing the great lamp, which had almost blinded his eyes. So he with his mate, who invariably followed his lead, were swept coastward ahead of the mighty gale, but to safety.