“Ah! Well a-day! What evil looks had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross about my neck was hung.” And thus, in death, the image of the bird was born. Had the trigger-happy Mariner not shot this helpful fowl, this airy guide upon whom the wayward crew was dependent, we’d not have the great expression—an “Albatross to bear”. Pinions of ebony, body of creamy white, this guileless bird was killed in mid-flight. The neck of its assassin bore the corpse’s heavy weight, endured the frigid Antarctic, and his colleagues’ cooler hate.

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