"And it's not a gull," said the man, squinting his eyes to look at the
distant bird. "It's too big. I declare! I think that's an eagle."

"Oh! An eagle like those on top of the flagstaffs?" cried Russ.

"And on the gold pieces?" added Rose, for she had a gold piece that had
been given her on her last birthday.

"No, not that kind of eagle," said the man. "But he's related. Yes, sir;
it's a sea-eagle; some call 'em, I guess rightly, ospreys. They're
fishers, but they can't roost on the sea. That one's a long way off
shore. Something is the matter with him."

"Do you suppose he's hungry?" asked Rose doubtfully.

"I shouldn't wonder if hunger drove him out here so far from land," said
the sailor, smiling. "But he's been hurt. You can see how his left wing
droops. Yes, something has happened to that bird."

The bird beat his way heavily toward the ship. First it rose a little
way in the air, and then it slid down as though almost helpless, beating
its good wing prodigiously to keep from falling into the water.

"He's making bad weather of it," said the sailor. "Poor chap. If he
comes aboard----"

"Oh! we'll feed him and mend his wing," cried Rose. "He's just
like--Why, Russ Bunker! that poor bird is just what Aunt Jo called poor
Sam, a tramp. That is what he is."