Evening Star Newspaper, September 23, 1928, Page 85

ILLUSTRATED | FEATURES Part 7—8 Pages MAGAZINE SECTION he Sunday Skt WASHINGTON, D. C.,. SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER . Human Owls Bring BY DON GLASSMAN. O taste a Washington night after theaters and avenue cafes have poured out their throngs and most people have whispered prayers and slid petween cozy covers, one wanders along the bare sidewalks of F street to the Patent Office, then| ‘zrns down Ninth street toward | Jennsylvania avenue, and after several more meanders meets the great facade of the Union Station. Some cars wait for passengers, and the conductors, not to be out- | done by hackmen, are wont to greet customers, t0o. “owl?” Pause here and weigh the merits + of owl car service. No change in price—just a token. And one is Erivileged to join the company of 'owl”-eyed men and women. | Slanting rain beat hard against | | | Busses, Cabs, | | | | the panes; it almost bored tiny holes in the glass, it was so hard. | The night riders felt relief to know | they were out of the wet and | under the dome of a sumptuously appointed street car. The woman who rubs the fog off the glass and presses her face close to the window. She watches the polished mirror of Pennsylvania avenue. We | know her. She lives on a bypath and works in a marble and wainscoted office | building. Night after night she rides | the owls. Night after night she scrubs | floors and dusts furniture and makes | rooms sweet smelling for men who drive business during the day. | The years have drawn a_cartoon on her face. No wonder, for thousands of nights she has stooped and bent and knelt to the tasks of a charwoman. Just a faint smile plays around her | face; lips pale and tightly pursed. Even hard toil has not erased benignity. She 1s a mother. Her children are more fortunate than she. They are schooled in the ways of the world by day. By night they sleep comfortably while the good mother empties waste baskets and shakes the duster. She ‘arrives home in time for a wink of sleep in the morning, but is up in time to cook breakfast and see her chil- dren off to classes. Then she returns to sleep until 3 in the afternoon. Sup- per is prepared. By 6 o'clock you may see her stooping, kneeling and bending over her labor. She is one of those who greet sunlight only on the Sabbath. A covenant of love exists over there in the corner seat. A youthful pair, still breathing heavily from running in the driving rain, are oblivious to drop- lets of jeweled water dripping from their raiment. Out on a late party, perhaps.. Like cooing doves, they cud- dle close to each other, and all the owls take sly notice of their buoyant inno- cence. But the lovers have forgotten the owls and their great, sleepy, blinking eyes. Else would they not have hidden behind an umbrella or a handkerchief before tasting each other’s exalted Javor? Night owls enjoy sights such as these. And an owl doesn’t give a hoot if lovers do flout the law. For owls are human and rarely have time for Gilberts and Garbos. It is better thus, they think. Isn't all the world & stage? Well, this is a rolling stage, with headlights instead of footligh's, | But drama, nevertheless. There is glamour in the scene and Tealism in | ¢ ‘he act. When all passengers are aboard he says, “giddyap” with a sudden “ding dong.” Mr. Ding Dong’s coat is a jerkin—a leather jerkin. The handling of coins makes necessary that it be made of leather. For, as every one knows, money is hard. The exchequer of tokens and change feels happy tonight. He hums an ai to drown the dankness that blows through the door cracks. “Is this your regular run?” we asked Mr. Ding Dong. “Regular? Gee, it's been that for 22 years,” he answered, giving vent to one of the tingling “dings.” “You must have seen many queer things during all these nights.” “Yeh, many of ’em. Lots of folks ride cars by night, you know.” “You must know some stories about them. Something out of the ordinary, that would interest people.” “Sure. Anything’s likely to happen on one of these street cars. Haven't you run across any yet?” some.” * ¥ X X muttered Mr. Ding Dong, ding money out of the slot. . “No, tell Mo * ¥ ¥ % “Lots of stories. Only for the life of me, \\7}10 sighs for Bagdad? ¥ Then he will fare forth on a night and taste the streets of the city. He will walk the thoroughfares that arc mapped straight, but twist about when paced on foot. Or he will board « carriage hack, drawn by a blind horse and driven by a swarthy, silk-hatted footman. He will rumble over the cob- bles of Four-and-a-Half street and make the round of three Executive avenues., He will wonder at the gray silence about the Royal Residence, then roll toward the Potomac banks and watch the river slip by the city. Washington, where George the Great ounded a nation, is the columnar y. So many columns. On the Treas- ury, the Capital, the State, War and Navy Building the ornaments chiseled out of limestone and marble and gran- it~ are so stalwart that they seem well- nigh capable of supporting the huge celestial dome. Between the columns are gray and purple shadows that hold nothing save silence. But a pleture of the Capital through the rare hours of the night is not com- lete without mention of Center Mar- et. All night long the cabbages and turnips and tomatoes and watermel- ons, apples and celery, come piling into the granary of foodstuffs. What 2 maw has the city! Every morning 500,000 mouths gape, open_ to swallow the mineral substances that grow out of the earth. Trucks and wagons come from afar, laden with greens that color the market place. The Yoads leading into the city are choked with this transfer from farm to con- sumer. In the dull dawn of morning, while the spell of sleep still cloaks the homes, the barges of commerce are un- Joaded and spread in displays for thrifty ‘housewives, who will soon come to see what has been brought into the city out of the night. The cabby has guided his blind horse 4o the summit of America’s Acropolis, the marble Capitol. On a wet night, when only the Government gendarmes hide in booths out of sight, the jeweled dome stands on its head in the asphalt pavement. There on the asphalt the white marble shimmered and glowed like a resplendent jewel set in the street. “The Uuuuunited Ssstates Capitol,” points the cabby, as if he had made a sudden discovery. * * MEET Mr. Ding Dong. Of course, like you and me, he has a less euphonious name. But here he must be Mr. Ding Dong, for his name wil describe his mission. He is major domo, factotum and lord of the whole moving caravan. He rarely talks. He is all business,. He meets the night owls, night in and out. He knows them by breath, look and clothing. He feels them, sometimes smells them and often “Tellos” them i Mr. Ding Dong boasts a mate. A man who plays another note, something like “dang dang.” Betwcen Mr. Ding | Dong and Mr. Dang Dang, the owls| come to know many a nocturnal tune i that folks who live and work by day never hear. If you should go toward the prow and essay a conversation with Mr. Dang Dang, he will reply with silence. If you insist, he will po\nt! aloft, somewhere in the rigging, to a neatly phrased notice: “SAFETY FIRST “Motorman’s Duties Require All His Attention.” Would you flout law? No. Then leave Mr. Dang Dang to his duties. An inspector might hop the owl and see the pilot in conversation with a passenger. Then official reports follow, and investi- gations. Mr. Dang Dang might feel uncomfortable. So trot back to the stern end and see how Mr. Ding Dong fares. At night Mr. Ding Dong entertains the owls. Instead of saying “whoa,” he . merely jerks a cord and sounds & re- day night. Ha! I can’t recall any. Let's see, you didn’t want to hear—Gosh! any now. you'll meet me on the line some other night, I'll have just what you want. know what vou want, only I can't re- member. the newspaj ing on in the world? Yes, want human stuff, I know. I can’t remember I tell 'em to my wife. If I Sure, haven't I been reading rs and learning what's go- sir, reporters “You should have been on last Tues- Prettiest girl you ever want to see stepped on this platform with two escorts. And fellows both mad after that girl. Mad, I tell you. Their eyes bulging red and their hands trembling with the excitement of helping the lady up the step. But she was all for keeping peace among them. ‘Wouldn't give a favor to one that she wouldn’t hand the other. “Now, when it came to sitting down together on one seat, they couldn't do it. They're somewhat narrow, you see. Well, the lady, she sat down next the window and the gents aimed for that seat. Perflop! At once. Ha, ha. Both of ’em couldn’t sit with the lady and the way they 'perflopped’ kinda ruffied her dress. See? “She gets up, she does. She looks daggers at both those fellows. Her face was red and her hair was standing up on end. Wondering what she did? Eh? She grabs each of those young swanks by the ear and says to me, ‘Conductor, please stop the car.” Under her orders I yanks the rope and stops the car. “She slung them off like a snake wriggles out of his skin, she did. And they were quiet and meek. Didn’t sass her back. She stayed on alone. I heard her say, ‘Good riddance of rubbish,’ and she went back to her seat. “But, gee! I'm awfully sorry I forgot all my stories. Something’s happening all the time on the night runs. Now, when I'm home it’s funny the way I can remember to tell them to my wife, But they just skipped my mind tonight.” * K K x ¢¥§/0U didn't hear about the time the ‘Cat’ was running around, did you? Well, the cops had a merry chase. All the night owls were being watched— every one who rode the cars had to have a number and a pedigree. The news- papers roasted the coppers out of their brass buttons. “Of course, all the car men sympa- thized with the cops and tried to give ‘em tips on the ‘Cat’ The night owls are a funny bunch, and sometimes, you know, it's easy to mistake a sleepy-eyed workingman for a pug. And that's how it came about that the cops follow- ed up a lot of ‘wooden’ tips that didn’t amount to a row of punched transfers. “One night, just a couple of days after the ‘Cat’ shot a man, or maybe a couple of men, and everybody was shiv- ering about it, I picks up a fellow who was trying to hide his face in his coat J 1apel. “He wasn't a real night owl, under- | | then at his slecves, finally resorting to stand, because I've seen too many of them. First place, he wore those kind of shoes that can't leave footprints be- hind. And then, what would a shabby man be wanting with a fancy pair of kid gloves, eh? “Anyway, when the car passed one of those detective-cops I gives him the sign of danger and he comes on board and I whispers the news as he drops a token in the box. “The cop sits next to the suspect and I watch the door, in case bullets fly. The law introduced himself as politely as a lady at a tea party and asks the shabby gent to stand up on his feet. He pulled off the old hat and who was there— no, not the ‘Cat'—somebody else. A man known well all over the wuntr{. I guess. Holds a high position in busi- ness. “How come he was dressed like that? He explained it to the cop by saying he couldn’t sleep at home—it Was some big, long name he used—-" “Somnambulism?"” “Yeah, guess that must be it. I didn’t want to hear too much about it, because the big joke was on me. See? verberating “ding.” A very clever system, #ud approved by all good night owls. € “No, I just can’t remember a story right now, Busy Daylight Tasks in Growing Capital of Nation—Characters to Be Seen. “Come on any other night and I'll promise to have at least one or two.” * K k% MR DING DONG signaled “whoa!” to the car driver and a man of ample proportions oozed up the step. He blew the steam out of his boilers and shook himself of the rain like a dog coming out of the river bath. He fug- { ged at his clothes, first at his trousers his hat, suddenly finding that he wa: minus two stitches on the greasy bow. So for 15 minutes. Mr. Ding Dong grew impatient over the fellow’s disposition to fill the pas- | sage around the coin box. | “Well?” said the exchequer of tokens. “Oh, dear me!” exclaimed the weasel- | eyed passenger. “Did I forget to pay ou?” | “Not me—the company. Eight cents | or a token, please.” Mr. Ding Dong‘aid ' in his most businesslike air. The fellow dug his chubby hand into his pocket, which, like the Grand Canal of Venice, must have wound a sinuous course of three or more miles. After some minutes of exploring the gar- gantuan depths of regions around the equatorial belt, he uttered a mighty “Humph!” and brought forth a dime.; Mr. Ding Dong stood ready to receive. | But did the mocn-faced man give up | the silver? Not yet. He fondled i, | turned it over seven dozen times, each | operation being performed with more | and more interest. The lady on the | dime almost screamed. He squeezed her | face and ran his thick fingernails down | small hours and fare out into the city. her silhouelte. ) I | “Well, whataya holding up about?”) demanded_the exchequer. i “H'm, was just wonderin'—just | vonderin'—if I pay you 8 cents, what'll do with the rest of the dime?” i * Ok k% MR DING DONG'S car must now | be abandoned. Jump on a b\ls} and ride the airy cushions. Pass the: spacious homes on Massachusetts nve-i nue. Water drips from the trees on to the mirrored street. Houses hide in the shadows. Only three passengers in the bus tonight. The cozy silence of the tailored inte- rior is unbroken by voices. Across ti aisle sits a raincoated gentleman. He's not a typical owl. For most owls per- form drudgery, and he is not a drudge. His nails are immaculate. What busi- ness does he have in the rainy night? “Ber-r-r! Cold and wet, isn’t it?” “It is that,” he answers. “Not many people out tonight.” “No-0-0-0," he rejoins. “Too wet.” “Going far?” “Oh, no, just out for a ride. I like to ride on nights like this one. I really see Washington. “I do this often. - Just for pleasure. Ten hours' sleep is too much. I can| get along on four. I sleep best between 10 and 2. It's great to get up in the “Yes, I study it, study it. Not boast-' - / {VE WATCHED HER FROM ALL ANGLES ing about what I know. Sightseeing in a hawker’s bus doesn’t charm me. “Say, I've traveled every owl car and | ve bus in the city. All the crews know me. Not boasting about it, but they know me. “I especially like to see the statue of Joan of Arc on a night like this. Oh, T've watched her from all angles, when the moon stood over her shoulder and when bolts of lightning streaked down her face. A lovely lady. You know, she’s in Meridian Park. “If you're feeling kind of restful and want to gloat over literary thoughts visit Edmund Burke’s statue. He looks fine, even on rainy nights. “Not boasting, but I know the city by night. Have you ever buzzed around much after everybody goes to sleep?” he questioned. “No, but me to see.” “well, if T can be of any help. I've been interviewed by reporters before. The first time I was all excited. But all that wears off. If the biggest reporter from the biggest newspaper in the world should interview me I'd be just as calm as I am talking to you now. Yes, just that calm. “But what do you want out of the night? Of course, I can help you, be- cause, as I said before without boasting, I know the city when the owls start running.” “The city must have some well de- fined glamour by night.” “Yes, sure,” he agreed. “Then it must be found. What is its spirit? Everybody knows what it is by day. The voice of Congress coming from the Capitol. The voice of Con- gress bellowing to the Nation. “The voice of Congress shrieking for reforms and arguing political planks. The czars of Congress play see-saw on political planks. The voice of con- gressmen is the voice of the city by you must be the man for ut by night?” Yes, by night—what?” * ok ok K “YWELL, I've heard strange things in my_prowlings around the he | city by night. Not boasting, mind you— because I never boast. But if you were to ask me where and how we could find—what would you call it?—the spirit of Washington by night, well, that's a hard question, now. A hard question. “You see, the city is so great and sprawling, stretching and yapping over all this territory like a giant octopus. And you might see one thing and say, “That is the spirit by night’ Two per- sons with experience could differ. Of course, I know what you want. Some- thing apout which there can be no difference. Because if there is disagree- ment some one must be wrong. “But, say. We're out in the night right now. Aren’t we? We might find that something you want. If congress- men made speeches all night our job would be simple. We'd just say, ‘Day and night, the voice of Congress is the voice of the city.’” “That's it. Congressmen can’t speak all night, every night.” “But I'm satisfied we'll find it, the ce of Washington by night. “Every city has a voice by night. In Chicago it is the bark of bullets and machine guns. In New York it is a tune, ‘The Sidewalks of New York.' In ‘Washington—gad! we must find it. “Not boasting, but I've been around the world a great deal. Do you know and appreciate what a luxury it is to have cars and busses running by night? H'm—take Paris, for example. Man alive, do you know that the whole Metro sysiem—that means subways— stops at midnight? Yes, sir! They lock the gates and all the subs stop running. The juice is turned off. Save your neck, you couldn’t ride a Paris subway after midnight. “Then take old London. The street car system and the underground sys- tem—they call it—just stop automati- cally at midnight. It takes a fortune in shillings and pence to get you any place. And their cabs don’t come like this one we're riding. “A London cab is a wreck—I mean a war relic. Haven't changed since be- fore the Great War. “Now, in_Paris, it's only fair to say that they do run a few owl bus lines, not many, by night. But the fare is doubled. Just because you work by night or you want to look at the scen- ery by night, you have to pay double prices for the privilege. Me for Wash- ington! The owls run line clockwork and fares never change. “No, no, I didn’t forget; we're looking for the voice by night. We'll get off the bus. I've an idea. I might find it. Come on! We'll get an owl going |the other way.” Eae SO the partners of the night, search- ing for a city's voice, issued out of the bus and caught another owl. Soon it was in the heart of the silent city, gliding over the glossy streets. man, “and go to the Seventh street wh?‘x;ves. Something to see there by night.” When the owl reached the car barn at the foot of Seventh street all the expanse toward the river was bathed in deep darkness. Even the great vault was inky, not a ray of celestial light leaking from behind the thickly banked clouds. Some phantom specter might be expected to loom any sudden mo- ment. The shadows of a starless night were thrown like shrouds about the white-hulled ships huddled close to the street. Ghostly dreams ran about. “Look at the morgue,” said the man. “Over there—the shanty house. Dead people in there, I guess. What a place for the dead! I see a man. He's huddled on the steps, sleeping. I won- der, wonder—could he be dead? Huh, but dead men never are found on an undertaker's steps—not even in story 4 “Now we'll get another owl,” said the | Lone Street Cars Carry Their Quotas of Persons Who Must Travel in Small Hours, or Find Relief From PP CLOSE TO THE - WINDOW books. He's a poor fellow, I guess, and you can’t deny he has a safe lodging place. Cops don't prowl around morgues; only ghosts.” Across the water the Army War College stood like & solid rampart, pre- pared for the foe. The building was drenched in a huge shadow, dull and leaden. “Look around and listen,” said the man. “Do you hear anything—any- thing that could be a voice?"” “No, only the sounds coming from the car barn.” “Don’t count them.” ‘Well, there’s nothing else.” 'No, nothing.” “I know another place,” he said. ‘Few people know it. Not even the cops. We'll go there and look and listen. You're not awfully particular, of course. If you are we can't find what we're after.” * kK ok H!: boarded another owl, and still another. He knew the city by night. There was no doubt. He led the way to the end of the line, to a suburban district, and walked four blocks. “This house,” he said, “might hold something.” “But it’s dark.” “Ha, wait until you see the lights inside.” He made his way in through three doors and several winding passages into a great room, a grand saloon, it seemed. Couples dancing and rocking to the rhythm of syncopated music. “Let’s have a drink—just plain ginger ale. waiter. Thanks.” ‘The heavy heat that oozes out of perspiring bodies pervaded the room. The atmosphere was thick. The ceil- ing was hung with confetti and colored crepe designs. The color motif was red—glaring crimson. And the jazzists. They were artists at the trade. “Listen for a voice,” said the man. “Listen to that woman sing. Ha, a 1 song out of Tin Pan alley.” Sang the cantatrice: %, “Then give me the cup of cold water, The clear, sweet cup of cold water! For his arm be strong, though his toil be long, ‘Who drinks but the clear cold water, New Life Where Silent Night Once Reigned short “ughs” and “umps.” A full bass voice. Steady, stately rhythm: “Umpa unk, umpa unk, umpa , umpa.” Sometimes there were three “unks” to- gether or an arrangement of “Umpa uni“unk,ump-unk,umplplpam The clarinet shot shivers into the people It shrieked and yelled and went through a hundred different mo- tions. The swift fingers of the player swept down the instrument and sent. aut wheedles and grimaces and wild caden- zas. The clarinetist took up a wawa and sent more tremors into the audi- ence. And the dancers, wrapped in embraces, toddled and shook, stepped in time to faultless rhythm. “‘Oh, Those Livery Stable Blues!'"” exclaimed a woman in glee. “Come!” said the man suddenly. “Surely this can't be the voice of the city by night. Let's meander.” * ok k% E led the way back to the owl waiting station and boarded the next car. “The voice of the city by night is not there,” he murmured. “Not _there.” ument Grounds it Out near the was deathly quict. The man paced the “Now, follow structure’s marble base. me,” he said. He walked west, crossed Seventeenth street and made the left bank of the Lincoln reflecting pool. The night was so dense that his reflection was drowned in the water. He walked in silence. ‘The man had forgotten the wetness of rain water. He seemed to walk blindly. Coming to the circular avenue around the Lincoln Memorial, he peered be- tween the columns for a sign of the marble man. But he was clouded in ;g:rhfi:nvg ahndo‘;s.m:hen he walked meNshnting_‘mnm, monument—in “Now, we'll go back on the o) side of the reflecting pool,” h:l’::fi: and started down the granite steps. Half way down the length of the long pool he stopped and took & seat un_‘;"w::l be'nli:g And he said: le spirit of Washington to the east? A great finger pointing from earth to heaven. See the Lincoln Me- morial to the west? Before you in the pog}'ue theht: shadows. ow,” added, “hear the 2 Hear the Potomac? Hear the Dot ts of 500,000 sleeping people? Hear silence of Washington? Join these sights and sounds. Make of them a Sygmhn?u l'lp:ln 3 " said, “ Bighae T © e valce/af: the city by Phases of Memory. ATTEMPTS have been made from time to time, in France, to “measure memory.” One of the experiments con- shelnedtnreld.lngxserluolmm the subject, at a regular of about two per second, and ohservinmidhnvn?l‘:y he could repeat without error in the order in which they were given. The faculty of volunteer attention is, of course, called into play by this experi- Children from 6 to 8 years old retain, on the average, five figures; chil- dren 10 years old, six figures; and nd;ntlts, seven figures. was ascertained that Inaudi, the lightning_calculator, could retain more than 40 !lnx"qms. o Many nge defects of memory are known to exist, and of these an mfnn- ing example may be given. A business_man keen mind and good general memory, who was not par- alyzed in eny way, and was perfectly nd and engage in con- lost & part of hi power of reading and of mathematica ca!xqglat)ieom e letters d, g g, x and y, though seen perfectly, were in this case no longer recognized and conveyed no more idea to him than Chinese characters would to most of us. He had difficulty o e o , and could read no words con- taining three letters. . He could write the letters which he could read, but could not write the five letters mentioned. He could read and write certain numbers, but 6. 7 and 8 had been lost to him; and whea he was asked to writz them, his only result, after many attempts, was to to write the words six, seven and eight, not being able to finish these, as the first and last contained letters (x and 8)_which he did not know. He could not add 7 and 5, or any two numbers whereof 6, 7 or 8 formed a part, for he could not call them to mind. Other numbers he knew well. He could no_longer tell time by the watch. For a week after the beginning of this curious condition he did not recognize his surroun . On go- ing out for the first time the streets of the city no longer seemed familiar; on coming back he did not know his own house. .After a few weeks, however, all his memories had returned excepting those of the letters and figures named; but as the loss of these put a stop to his reading and to all his business life, the small defect of memory was to him a serious thing. e The North Sea Bird Trap. THE Island of Helgoland, in the North Sea, is a triangular rock of perhaps a hundred acres, but there is probably no spot of equal size on the earth’s surface that is of greater inter- est to the ornithologist. Nearly every one on the island is a born student of birds. The flight and note of every bird is familiar to every islander. A new bird is instantly detected. The fisher- man steers with a gun by his side: the peasant digs his potatoes with a gun on the turf and a heap of birds on his coat.: Every bird that appears is whistled within range with marvelous skill. The common sorts are eaten, the rare ones sold to the bird stuffer, and the new ones taken to the ornithologists. ° The Autumnal migration is a spec- tacle that ornithologists from all over the world are wont to attend. On one such occasion a distinguished bird student was waked at half past 12 in the morning with the news that the migration had already begun. Hastily dressing himself, he at once made for the lighthouse. The night was almost pitch dark, but the town was astir. In every street men with large lanterns and a sort of angler's landing net were making for the lighthouse. At the lighthouse an interesting sight presented itself. The whole zone of light within range of the mirrors was alive with birds coming and going. Nothing else was visible in the darkness of the night but the lantern of the lighthouse vignetted in a drifting sca of birds. PFrom the darkness in the east clouds of birds were emerging in Who drinks but the clear cold water.” This piece done, the jazzists began anew their syncopated crooning. They ran through the repertoire of America’s opus writer, Irving Berlin. sv.mmg with “Alexander’s Rag Time Band"” and “Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning,” they concluded with “Sometime.” What a battery of weird cacophony. Cymbals, tom-toms, glockenspiel, ce- lesta, xylophone, tympani and trom- bones. sarrusophone and highland bagpipes were there. The feminine saxophone and its big-mouthed brother. The wood winds and ivories. ‘What gave martial force to the clash of 'sound was the big brass horn. It was played by a heavy man with balloon checks. He drew in one long gasp and let the air out in a series of unNunlnte'n'uz:’e“di,"I stream. 0 one guess how _many thousands of birds passed in a couple of hours, but the stray birds which tae lighthouse keeper succeeded in securing. as they fluttered against the wire net- ting, amounted almost to 300. The night was starless and the towsn invisible, but the island looked like the ottskirts of a well lighted citv, beiny sprinkled all over with brilliant lanterns. Many larks alighed on the rest and allowed the islanders their nets over them. On some nigh:s as as 15,000 skylarks nave oeei taken on the island. At about 3 o'clock in the morning the clouds broke, the :;ars nn:le out and the migration came an end. or was continued al e range of human vision. P