It requires very good eyesight to discover the entrance of Avatcha Bay at a distance of eight or ten miles, but the landmarks are of such excellent character that one can approach without hesitation.  The passage is more than a mile wide.  Guarding it on the right is a hill nearly three hundred feet high, and standing almost perpendicular above the water.  At the left is a rock of lesser height, terminating a tongue or ridge of land.  On the hill is a light-house and signal station with a flag staff.  Formerly the light was only exhibited when a ship was expected or seen, but in 1866, orders were given for its maintainance every night during the summer months.

Years ago, on the coast of New Hampshire, a man from the interior was appointed light keeper.  The day he assumed his position was his first on the sea-shore.  Very soon there were complaints that his lights did not burn after midnight.  On being called to account by his superior, he explained—­

“Well, I thought all the ships ought to be in by midnight, and I wanted to save the ile.”

CHAPTER III.

As one leaves the Pacific and enters Avatcha Bay he passes high rocks and cliffs, washed at their base by the waves.  The loud-sounding ocean working steadily against the solid walls, has worn caverns and dark passages, haunted by thousands of screaming and fluttering sea-birds.  The bay is circular and about twenty miles in diameter; except at the place of entrance it is enclosed with hills and mountains that give it the appearance of a highland lake.  All over it there is excellent anchorage for ships of every class, while around its sides are several little harbors, like miniature copies of the bay.

At Petropavlovsk we hoped to find the Russian ship of war, Variag, and the barque Clara Bell, which sailed from San Francisco six weeks before us.  As we entered the bay, all eyes were turned toward the little harbor.  “There is the Russian,” said three or four voices at once, as the tall masts aird wide spars of a corvette came in sight.  “The Clara Bell, the Clara Bell—­no, it’s a brig,” was our exclamation at the appearance of a vessel behind the Variag.

“There’s another, a barque certainly,—­no, it’s a brig, too,” uttered the colonel with an emphasis of disgust.  Evidently his barque was on the sea.

Rounding the shoal we moved toward the fort, the Russian corvette greeting us with “Hail Columbia” out of compliment to our nationality.  We carried the American flag at the quarter and the Russian naval ensign at the fore as a courtesy to the ship that awaited us.  As we cast anchor just outside the little inner harbor, the Russian band continued playing Hail Columbia, but our engineer played the mischief with the music by letting off steam.  As soon as we were at rest a boat from the corvette touched our side, and a subordinate officer announced that his captain would speedily visit us.  Very soon came the Captain of The Port or Collector of Customs, and after him the American merchants residing in the town.  Our gangway which we closed at San Francisco was now opened, and we once more communicated with the world.