94 
WILD WINGS 
ingly adapted by nature for stentorian vocal efforts, are prac¬ 
tically mutes ; the Noddies, also, seem to have no note other 
than a weak little croak. But the Sooties make up for all 
other lacks with their clarion calls. Even when wholly undis¬ 
turbed, their natural nervousness makes it impossible for 
them to be quiet. The great host is continually engaged in 
some alarm. By thousands they settle down to their nests or 
upon the sand. Some individual quarrels with another, and 
rises with an angry scream. A few neighbors do the same, 
and then, with a furious uproar, thousands of wings are flut¬ 
tering, and thousands of voices unite in a tremendous shout 
that well-nigh shakes the key upon its coral foundations. The 
racket, at length, seems fairly to frighten the birds them¬ 
selves, and suddenly every voice is hushed in an absolute 
stillness which seems for an instant even more startling and 
ajDpalling than the j^revious din. But this is only for an 
instant; again the hubbub breaks forth, if possible with 
redoubled power. All day long this goes on, and the visitor 
becomes accustomed to it, though he feels that he is becom¬ 
ing deaf, losing the power to distinguish minor sounds. 
At dusk there is a general let-up, and most of the birds 
settle down to rest. Yet there are always some a-wing, and 
hardly a moment will pass without some sort of a crv. But 
now it is only an individual voice that is heard, instead of 
a vast chorus. As we lie under our blankets on the piazza, 
watching the twinkling of the Loggerhead Light, the dim 
form of a Sooty suddenly dashes past the gable, and with 
a resounding scream it is gone, like a waning meteorite, per¬ 
haps to be followed by a Noddy, with its comical little squeak 
of a voice. But soon no sounds can longer keep us awake. 
At daybreak the clamor begins, and we, too, are astir. The 
skilful guide soon prepares a steaming and bountiful repast, 
and again I am out with the camera among the birds. 
