Section 239. A CURIOUS STORY. VII.
Reading edition
In the month of April 1872, a singular misfortune befell them. While burning some of the brushwood below to make a clearing, the tussock-grass in the gully[1], by which they had been in the habit[2] of ascending the cliff, caught fire, and as it had been only by its assistance that they had been able to scramble up to the plateau, their only hunting-ground was now inaccessible from the strip of beach on which their hut and garden stood, which was closed in on either side by a headland jutting into the sea. While their half-boat remained seaworthy, they were able to paddle round in fine weather to the west side of the island, where there was an access to the top; but the “sea-cart,” as they called it, was washed off the beach and broken up in June, and after that the only way they had of reaching the plateau was by swimming round the headland—a risky feat, even in the finest weather, in these wild regions.
In winter it was found to be impossible to reach the terrace, and as their supply of food was low, they experienced considerable privations during their first winter. Their daily allowance of food was reduced to a quantity just sufficient to maintain life, and in August they were little better than skeletons[3].
Help was, however, near. Early in August a multitude of penguins landed[4] hard by their hut,—stupid[5] animals, which will scarcely get out of one’s way, and are easily knocked down with a stick[6], and with fleshy breasts, wholesome enough, though with a rather fishy taste; and in the end of August the females began to lay large blue eggs, sufficiently delicate in flavour.