Penitent Penguins of the Falkland Islands

There comes a time in every man’s life when, despite one’s better instincts, one embarks upon an adventure one had, for good reason, avoided over the course of a lifetime. Truly this is such an instance, as I trust will soon become apparent.

Perhaps it was in June 1847, if recollection serves, that whilst conducting my researches anent quite a different issue, I chanced upon a dusty tome in the British Museum bearing the very title of the essay now before you. I daren’t be sidetracked, said I to myself (dutifully attempting to remain unheard by my nearest neighbors in the reading room in question), and yet I grasped the volume with quivering hands and barely began to read its contents; my lips were buttoned so as to avoid further glances of annoyance from my neighbors.

The frontispiece bore the date 9 December 1763 as well as a melodic line with lyrics suggesting some manner of penitential hymn apparently addressed to the Virgin. Though I dreaded perusing yet another theological tract, its aviary connotations continued to pique my curiosity even after I had re-shelved the volume out of sight.

As you may well imagine, I slept only fitfully that night, though I briefly dreamt of a procession, the likes of which I dare not describe whilst maintaining my balance of mind. But I also knew, right there and then, that I must hold that book in my hands once again, though it be my last act in this life.

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As Fate had it, it was snowing bitterly the next morning (thus one suspects it cannot have been the June of 1847); yet my determination remained firm and I set out upon what was soon to become my life’s new mission (but I daresay I am getting ahead of myself in this tale). I trudged my usual route, one whose features were being covered by the falling snow that day.

Up ahead, lingering at the window of the tobacconist’s shop, I espied Wilfrid Dirfliw, an old acquaintance from our Oxford University days. As usual he was smoking his pipe (and spitting madly upon the walk, as was his custom). His mangy old bloodhound, Pippin, was straining against the leash in a vain effort to access the hindquarters of a loose bitch running by, as one faintly recalls. “Hallo, Doctor,” called out Wilfrid, glancing expectantly in my direction.. For my part, I was exceedingly hesitant to blurt out my momentary preoccupations, and I returned his salutations in as civilized a manner as I could.

“Chilly, eh?” I must have mumbled dismissively, hoping for the best. How startled I was when he replied, with what I took to be a derisive laugh, “Right you are, Doctor. Only a bloody school of Penguins would be happy cavorting about in this weather.” I pretended amusement, whilst fainting from within my own soul, and proceeded onwards as the snow grew deeper. (I heard Wilfrid expectorate behind me and was determined not to take personal offence.) Pippin barked pitifully, or should I perhaps say howled painfully, into the strong wind, as I recall. What might this portend, I wondered? (No, June is definitely out of the question here.)

You cannot imagine my relief when I finally regained entry into my reading room, beyond the somnolent guards. I retraced all my steps of the previous evening, and at length felt my way to the open shelf where the spine of my aforementioned tome fortunately protruded just enough to beckon to my hands. And I began to read of matters both arcane and unimaginable.

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