AN ISLAND OF WATER 325 



to the wall light, then sank slowly and came to rest 

 on my knee. I finished my sentence and began to 

 write a description of the dainty bird, while it 

 ruffled and shook and settled its plumage into 

 place, showering me with drops. I felt no envy 

 of Stevenson or Twain now. For the space of 

 several minutes we looked at each other, the tern 

 much the more composed and less breathless of the 

 two. Then, lightly as thistle-down, it rose, flut- 

 tered over to my desk and alighted in the middle 

 of a large map of Cocos Island which happened 

 to be lying there (Go ahead, Reader, say it your- 

 self, I won't bother to write it!). 



For a long time the bird preened its white plum- 

 age, looking about with its dark, quick eyes and 

 burying the slender beak deep in the feathers, 

 fluffing them out. The chicory blue of the beak 

 was just the touch needed to set off the snow-white 

 plumage. As it preened, it walked slowly about 

 on the paper Cocos, the violet blue webs between 

 the toes pattering softly. Then the long, angled, 

 capable wings were stretched, high, high up, and 

 a half dozen quick beats lifted the whole little be- 

 ing, making palpable the thin air. Without haste, 

 yet without hesitation, the fairy tern drifted out of 

 the door, glimmered like a painted kakemono 

 ghost for a moment, and vanished. I watched the 

 same slanting lines, listened in vain for any last 

 call it might have sent back, and wondered whether 

 I had not dreamed a dream. But the map of 

 Cocos Island showed a cluster of little, swollen 

 blisters where the damp drops had raised the 



