While a British brig was gliding smoothly along before a good breeze in
the South Pacific, a flock of small birds about the size, shape, and
color of paroquets settled down in the rigging and passed an hour or
more resting. The second mate was so anxious to find out the species
to which the visiting strangers belonged that he tried to entrap a
specimen, but the birds were too shy to be thus caught and too spry to
be seized by the quick hands of the sailors. At the end of about an
hour the birds took the brig's course, and disappeared, but towards
nightfall they came back and passed the night in the main-top. The next
morning the birds flew off again, and when they returned at noon the
sailors scattered some food about the decks. By this time the birds had
become so tame that they hopped about the decks, picking up the crumbs.
That afternoon an astonishing thing happened. The flock came flying
swiftly toward the brig. Every bird seemed to be piping as if pursued
by some little invisible enemy on wings, and they at once huddled down
behind the deck-house. The superstitious sailors at once called the
captain of the brig, who rubbed his eyes and looked at the barometer. A
glance showed that something was wrong with the elements and the brig
was put in shape to out-ride a storm. The storm came down about twenty
minutes after the birds had reached the vessel. For a few minutes the
sky was like the waterless bottom of a lake--a vast arch of yellowish
mud--and torrents of rain fell. Why it did not blow very hard, no one
knows; but on reaching port, two days later, the captain learned that a
great tornado had swept across that part of the sea. The birds left the
vessel on the morning after the storm and were not seen again.