CHAPTER III 



THE COMING OF SPRING TO THE MIST ISLANDS 



Lonely and in the keeping of the great Atlantic is the 

 island of which I write. During the wild gales of the 

 winter season the spray from the swift-moving rollers reaches 

 almost to the summit of the little hill — ^^it is only three 

 hundred feet high — which catches the low mist clouds that 

 sweep in from the sou '-westward. 



It was on a day of soft drifting showers, and that thick 

 mist which brings the clouds so low that they seem even 

 to touch the surface of the water, that I first visited the 

 island. 



For weeks, months even, during the season of winter 

 the island is inaccessible, owing to the swell that breaks 

 against its rock-girt sides even during fine, quiet days. But 

 a spell of winds from the north had calmed the waters, so 

 that it was possible to land this day of early January on 

 the lee shore. 



A curiously quiet and peaceful atmosphere brooded on this 

 day of mists over the island. One seemed to be in the abode 

 of the cloud-spirit, with only the boom of the surf and the sigh 

 of the wind to break the great silence. 



As I landed, a solitary oyster catcher flew out from 

 the shore, uttering no cry. Above the hilltop there soared 

 a buzzard and his mate. On the grassy plateau many 

 barnacle geese stood, their feeding interrupted, and watched 

 me inquiringly. Through the glass I could clearly make out 

 their handsome plumage of black and white, with their bills 

 of a black colour. 



Soon they rose into the air, flying slowly and power- 

 fully into the wind. Many cries were then borne across to 



lO 



