IN THE SHETLANDS 29 
staider bob, that has much of deportment about it. 
Fach kind has its charm—never was there a prettier 
family bobbing. All bob to each other—that, at least, 
is what it looks like—and their song, if they had one, 
would be certainly this : 
If it wasna weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, 
If it wasna weel bobbit, we'll bob it again, 
But, for my part, | have never seen them bob it 
otherwise than well. They all of them bob to 
perfection. 
Scenes like this belong to the pebbled beach and 
gently sloping shore. There are others in the deeply 
indented, rocky bays that bound the greater part 
of the island. Here, in the frowning shadow of 
beetling, cavern-worn precipices, one may often see 
the little eider-ducklings crawl out to feed upon the 
steeply-sloping sides of rocks or mightier “ stacks” 
—as those great detached spurs of the cliff that the 
water swirls round are called here—whilst their mother 
waits and watches on the sea close at hand. She 
does not bob now. These sullen heaving waves sway 
her with a larger and more rhythmic motion, calm 
but portentous, like the breathings of a sleeping lion 
that may at any moment awake. Or she will follow 
her ducklings, sliding up on the heave of the wave, 
and remaining, most smoothly deposited, as though 
the sea, rough and rude as it cannot help being, yet 
really loved her, in its way, and were solicitous of her 
safety. There she will feed beside them till she tires, 
