Those who have visited the markets of San Francisco during the egg
season may have noticed the abundance of large and singularly marked
eggs, that are offered for sale by the bushel. The shells of these eggs
are pear-shaped, parti-colored, and very thick. They range in color from
a light green to grey or brown, and are all of them profusely spotted,
or blotted, I might say spattered, with clots of black or brown. Some
are beautiful, with soft tints blended in a delicate lace-like pattern.
Some are very ugly, and look unclean. All are a trifle stale, with a
meat of coarse texture and gamy flavor. But the Italians and the Coolies
are fond of them, and doubtless many a gross finds its way into the
kitchens of the popular cheap restaurants, where, disguised in omelets
and puddings, the quantity compensates for the lack of quality, and the
palate of the rapid eater has not time to analyze the latter. These are
the eggs of the sea-gull, the gull that cries all day among the shipping
in the harbor, follows the river boats until meal-time, and feeds on the
bread that is cast upon the water.[2] How true it is that this bread
returns to us after many days!
The gulls, during incubation, seek the solitude of the Farallones, a
group of desolate and weather-beaten rocks that tower out of the fog
about thirty miles distant from the mouth of the harbor of San
Francisco. Nothing can be more magnificently desolate than the aspect of
these islands. Scarcely a green blade finds root there. They are haunted
by sea-fowl of all feathers, and the boom of the breakers mingles with
the bark of the seals that have colonized on one of the most
inaccessible islands of the group. It is here that myriads of sea-birds
rear their young, here where the very cliffs tremble in the tempestuous
sea and are drenched with bitter spray, and where ships have been cast
into the frightful jaws of caverns and speedily ground into splinters.
The profit on sea-eggs has increased from year to year, and of late
speculators have grown so venturesome that competition among
egg-gatherers has resulted in an annual naval engagement, known to the
press and the public as the egg-war. If two companies of egg-pickers
met, as was not unlikely, the contending factions fell upon one another
with their ill-gotten spoils--the islands are under the rule of the
United States, and no one has legal right to take from them so much as
one egg without license--and the defeated party was sure to retire from
the field under a heavy shower of shells, the contents of which, though
not fatal, were at least effective.
I have before me the notes of a retired egg-picker; they record the
brief experience of one who was interested in the last campaign, which,
as it terminated the career of the egg-pirates, is not without
historical interest. I will at once introduce the historian, and let him
tell his own tale.
"On Board the Schooner 'Sierra.'--
"Off the City Front.
"May 4, 1881.
"5 p.m.--There are ten of us all told; most of us strangers to one
another, but Tom and Jim, and Fred, that's me, are pals, and have been
these many months. So we conclude to hang together, and make the most of
an adventure perfectly new to each. At our feet lie our traps; blankets,
woolen shirts, heavy boots, with huge nails in the soles of them,
tobacco in bulk, a few novels, a pack of cards, and a pocket flask, for
the stomach's sake. A jolly crew, to be sure, and jollily we bade adieu
to the fellows who had gathered in the dock to wish us God-speed.
Casting loose we swung into the stream, and then slowly and clumsily
made sail. The town never looked prettier; it is always the way and
always will be; towns, like blessings, brighten just as they get out of
reach. Drifting into the west we began to grow thoughtful; what had at
first seemed a lark may possibly prove to be a very serious matter. We
have to feed on rough rations, work in a rough locality, among rough
people, and our profits, or our share of the profits, will depend
entirely upon the fruitfulness of the egg-orchard, and the number of
hundred gross that we are able to get safely into the market. No news
from the town, save by the schooner that comes over at intervals to take
away our harvest. No society, save our own, good enough always, provided
we are not forcibly confined to it. No amusements beyond a novel, a
pipe, and a pack of cards. Ah well! it is only an experience after all,
and here goes!
"Sea pretty high, as we get outside the Heads, and feel the long roll of
the Pacific. Wind, fresh and cold; we are to be out all night and
looking about for bunks, we find the schooner accommodations are
limited, and that the captain and his crew monopolize them. We sleep
anywhere, grateful that we are able to sleep at all.
"10 p.m.--A blustering head wind, and sea increasing. What little supper
we were able to get on board was worse than none at all, for it did not
stay with us--anything but fun, this going to sea in a bowl, to rob
gull's nests, and smuggle eggs into market.
"May 5th.
"Woke in the early dawn, everything moist and sticky, clammy is the
better word, and that embraces the whole case; stiff and sore in every
joint; bacon for dinner last night, more bacon for breakfast this
morning, and only half-cooked at that. Our delicate town-bred stomachs
rebel, and we conclude to fast until we reach the island. Have sighted
the Farallones, but are too miserable to express our gratitude; wind and
sea still rising; schooner on beam ends about once in forty seconds,
between times standing either on her head or her tail, and shaking
herself 'like a thing of life.'
"At noon off the landing, a buoy bobbing in the billows, to which we are
expected to make fast the schooner, and get to shore in the exceedingly
small boat; captain fears to tarry on account of heavy weather;
concludes to return to the coast and bide his time; consequently makes
for Bolinas Bay, which we reach about 9 p.m., and drop anchor in
comparatively smooth water; glad enough to sleep on an even keel at
last; it seems at least six months since we left the shining shores of
San Francisco, yet it is scarce thirty hours--but such hours, ugh!
"Bolinas Bay, May 6th.
"Wind blowing a perfect gale; we are lying under a long hill, and the
narrow bay is scarcely rippled by the blast that rushes over us, thick
with flying-scud. Captain resolves to await better weather; some of the
boys go on shore, and wander out to a kind of reef at the mouth of the
bay, where in a short time they succeed in gathering a fine mess of
mussels; the rest of us, the stay-on-boards, rig up a net and catch
fifteen large fat crabs; with these we cook a delicious dinner, which we
devour ravenously, like half-starved men; begin to realize how
storm-tossed mariners feel, and have been recounting hair-breadth
escapes, over our pipes on deck; there will be much to tell the fellows
on shore, if we are ever so fortunate as to get home again.
"May 7th.
"Though the weather is still bad enough to discourage us landsmen, we
put to sea, and once more head for the Farallones. They are hidden in
mist, but we beat bravely about, and by-and-by distinguish the faint
outlines of the islands looming through the fog! We try to secure the
buoy, tacking to and fro; just at the wrong moment our main halyards
part, and the sail comes crashing to the deck. To avoid being cast on
the inhospitable shore, we put to sea under jib and foresail, and are
five miles away before damages are repaired and we dare venture to
return; head about, and make fast this time. Hurrah! After several trips
of the small boat, succeed in landing luggage and provisions above
high-water mark on the Farallones; each trip of the boat is an event,
for it comes in on a big breaker, and grounds in a torrent of foam and
sand.
"We find two cabins at our disposal; the larger one containing
dining-room and kitchen, and chambers above; seven of our boys store
their blankets in the rude bunks that are drawn by lot. Tom, Jim, and I
secure the smaller cabin, a single room, with bunks on three sides, a
door on the fourth.
"9 p.m.--We have dined and smoked and withdrawn to our respective
lodges; the wind moans without, a thin, cold fog envelopes us; the sea
breaking furiously, the night gloomy beyond conception, but the captain
and his crew on the little schooner are not so comfortable as the
egg-pickers whom they have left behind.
"May 8th.
"We all rose much refreshed, and after a hearty breakfast, such as would
have done credit to a mining-camp in pioneer days, set forth on a rabbit
chase. The islands abound in rabbits. Where do they come from, and on
what do they feed? These are questions that puzzle us.
"We resolve to attack them. Having armed ourselves with clubs about two
feet in length, we proceed in a body until a rabbit is sighted, then,
separating, we surround him and gradually close him in, pelt him with
stones or sticks until the poor fellow is secured; sometimes three or
four are run down together; it is cruel sport, but this is our only hope
of fresh meat during the sojourn on the islands; a fine stew for dinner,
and some speculation on the prospect of our egg-hunt to-morrow.
"May 9th.
"We did the first work of the season to-day. At the west end of the
islands is a chasm, through which the wind whistles; the waves, rushing
in from both sides, meet at the centre and leap wildly into the air.
Across this chasm we threw a light suspension bridge about forty feet in
length and two in width; one crosses it by the aid of a life-line. On
the further rock the birds are nesting in large numbers, and to-morrow
we begin the wholesale robbery of their nests.
"When the bridge was completed, being pretty well fagged and quite
famished, we returned to the cabin, lunched heartily, and spent the
afternoon in highly successful rabbit chasing. Plenty of stew for all of
us. If Robinson Crusoe had been cast ashore on this island, I wonder how
he would have lived? As it is, the rabbits sometimes succeed in escaping
us, and without powder and shot it would be quite impossible for one or
two persons to bag them. We are beginning to lose faith in the
delightful romances of our youth, and to realize what a desert island
is.
"May 10th.
"In front of us we each carry a large sack in which to deposit eggs; our
boots are clumsy, and the heavy nails that fill their soles make them
heavy and difficult to walk in. We also carry a strong staff to aid us
in climbing the rugged slopes. About us is nothing but grey,
weather-stained rocks; there are few paths, and these we cannot follow,
for the sea-birds, though so unused to the presence of man, are wary and
shy of his tracks; the day's work has not proved profitable. Few of us
gathered any eggs; one who was more successful, and had secured enough
to make it extremely difficult for him to scale the rocks, slipped, fell
on his face, and scrambled all his store. His plight was laughable, but
he was scarcely in the mood to relish it, as he washed his sack and
blouse in cold water, while we indulged in cards.
[Illustration: Murre on their Nests, Farallone Islands]
"May 11th.
"Built another bridge over a gap where the sea rushes, and which we call
the _Jordan_. If the real Jordan is as hard to cross, heaven help us.
Eggs not very plentiful as yet; we are rather early in the season, or
the crop is late this year. More rabbits in the p.m.; more wind, more
fog; and at night, pipes, cards, and a few choruses that sound strange
and weird in the fire lights on this lonely island.
"May 12th.
"Eggs are so very scarce. The foreman advises our resting for a day. We
lounge about, looking off upon the sea; sometimes a sail blows by us,
but our islands are in such ill-repute with mariners, they usually give
us a wide berth, as they call it. A little homesick towards dusk; wonder
how the boys in San Francisco are killing time; it is time that is
killing us, out here in the wind and fog.
"May 13th.
"Have been hunting abalones all day, and found but a baker's dozen;
their large, shallow shells are glued to the rock at the first approach
of danger, and unless we can steal upon these queer fish unawares, and
thrust something under their shells before they have shut down upon the
rock, it is almost impossible to pry them open. Some of the boys are
searching in the sea up to their waists--hard work when one considers
how tough the abalone is, and how tasteless.
"May 14th.
"This morning all our egg-pickers were at work; took in the west end,
only the high rock beyond the first bridge; gathered about forty dozen
eggs, and got them safely back to camp; in some nests there were three
eggs, and these we did not gather, fearing they were stale. In the p.m.
tried to collect dry grass enough to make a thin mattress for my bunk;
barely succeeded; am more than ever convinced that desert islands are
delusions.
"May 15th.
"It being Sunday, we rest from our labors; by way of varying the
monotony of island life, we climb up to the lighthouse, 300 feet above
sea level. The path is zig-zag across the cliff, and is extremely
fatiguing. While ascending, a large stone rolled under my foot, and
went thundering down the cliff. Jim, who was in the rear, heard it
coming, and dodged; it missed his head by about six inches. Had it
struck him, he would have been hurled into the sea that boiled below; we
were both faint with horror, after realizing the fate he had escaped.
Were cordially welcomed by the lighthouse keeper, his wife, and her
companion, a young woman who had come to share this banishment. The
keeper and his wife visit the mainland but twice a year. Everywhere we
saw evidence of the influence of these charming people. The house was
tidy--the paint snow-white. The brass-work shone like gold; the place
seemed a kind of Paradise to us; even the machinery of the revolving
light, the multitude of reflectors, etc., was enchanting. We dreaded to
return to our miserable cabins, but were soon compelled to, and the
afternoon was spent in the customary rabbit chase, ending with a stew of
no mean proportions.
"May 16th.
"More eggs, and afterwards a fishing excursion, which furnished us
material for an excellent chowder. We are beginning to look for the
return of the schooner, and have been longing for news from shore.
"May 17th.
"A great haul of abalones this p.m. We filled our baskets, slung them
on poles over our shoulders Coolie fashion, and slowly made our way back
to camp. The baskets weighed a ton each before we at last emptied them
by the cabin door. Built a huge fire under a cauldron, and left a mess
of fish to boil until morning. The abalones are as large as steaks, and
a great deal tougher. Smoke, cards, and to bed; used up.
"May 18th.
"Same program as yesterday, only the novelty quite worn off, and this
kind of life becoming almost unendurable.
"May 19th.
"More eggs, more abalones, more rabbits. No signs of schooner yet.
Wonder, had Crusoe kept a diary, how many days he would have kept it
before closing it with chagrin.
"May 20th.
"Spent the p.m. in getting the abalone shells down to the egg-house at
the landing. We have cleaned them, and are hoping to find this
speculation profitable; for the shells, when polished and cut, are much
used in the market for inlaying and setting in cheap jewelry. We loaded
a small tram, pushed it to the top of an incline, and let it roll down
the other side to the landing, which it reached in safety. This is the
only labor-saving machine at our command.
"May 21st.
"We seem to be going all to pieces. The day commenced badly. Two of the
boys inaugurated it by a violent set-to before breakfast--an old grudge
broke out afresh, or perhaps the life here has demoralized them. I have
lamed my foot. Tide too high for abalone fishing. Eggs growing scarce,
and the rabbits seem to have deserted the accessible parts of the
island. Everybody is disgusted. We are forgetting our table-manners, it
is 'first come first served' now-a-days. I wonder if Robinson--oh, no!
he had no one but his man Friday to contend against. No schooner; no
change in the weather; tobacco giving out, and not a grain of good humor
to be had in the market. To bed, very cross.
"May 22d.
"No one felt like going to work this morning. Affairs began to look
mutinous. We have searched in vain for the schooner, now considerably
overdue, and are dreading the thought of having to fulfill a contract
which calls for six weeks' labor on these islands. Some of the other
islands are to be visited, and are accessible only in small boats over a
sea that is never even tolerably smooth. This expedition we all dread a
little--at least, I judge so from my own case--but we say nothing of it.
While thus gloomily brooding over our plight, smoke was sighted on the
horizon; we ascended the hill to watch it. A steamer, doubtless, bound
for a sunnier clime, for no clime can be less sunny than ours of the
past fortnight.... It was a steamer, a small Government steamer, making
directly for our island. We became greatly excited, for nothing of any
moment had occurred since our arrival. She drew in near shore and cast
anchor. We gathered at the landing-cove to give her welcome. A boat was
beached in safety. An officer of the law said, cheerfully, as if he were
playing a part in a nautical comedy, 'I must beg you, gentlemen, to step
on board the revenue cutter, and return to San Francisco.' We were so
surprised we could not speak; or were we all speechless with joy, I
wonder? He added, this very civil sheriff, 'If you do not care to
accompany me, I shall be obliged to order the marines on shore. You will
pardon me, but as these islands are Government property, you are
requested to immediately withdraw from them.' We withdrew. We steamed
away from the windy rocks, the howling caverns, the seething waves, the
frightful chasms, the seabirds, the abalones, the rabbits, the gloomy
cabins, and the pleasant people at the top of the cliff within the white
walls of the lighthouse. Joyfully we bounded over the glassy waves, that
grew beautiful as the Farallones faded in the misty distance, and,
having been courteously escorted to the city dock, we were bidden
farewell, and left to the diversions of the hour. Thus ended the last
siege of the Farallones by the egg-pickers of San Francisco. (Profits
_nil_.)"
And thus I fear, inasmuch as the Government proposes to guard the
sea-birds until a suitable license is secured by legitimate egg-pickers,
the price of gulls' eggs will go up in proportion, and hereafter we
shall have to look upon them as luxuries, and content ourselves with the
more modest and milder-flavored but undecorated products of the less
romantic barn-yard fowl.