THE AZORES--A SMALL LOST WORLD IN A UNIVERSE OF WATER

As you cross the Atlantic by the Southern route the "sighting of
the Azores" is one incident of your voyage. Just before daybreak
the ship is shaking and the passengers roused by the deep tones
of the big steam whistle.

One by one shivering forms straggle up from below, like reluctant
spirits answering a premature last call. Bare feet in slippers,
and shivering forms with overcoats over nightgowns, gradually
line the rails.

On the left there appears, apparently, a heavy, dark bank of
clouds:

"The Azores!" shouts down from the bridge your yellow-whiskered
captain, looking as cheerful and warm as though it were noon.

You watch, shiver and blink as the light grows stronger behind
the pinkish clouds in the east. The dark cloud settles into
solid land. You see it clearly. Sharply outlined against the
sky stands, forty miles long, a mammoth saw with huge teeth,
irregular, sharp. The power of old-time volcanoes made all of
that land, and those sharp saw-teeth, pointing toward the sky,
are the destroyers of long ago, cold and dead now, but telling
ominously of the power that lies hidden below.

Between you and the brightening sunrise, suspended in the "crow's
nest," half way up the mast, stands the sailor who watches the
sea for you through the night. He calls out, and ahead to the