82 THE BIRD WATCHER 
rosy red, and then take fire; but from the moment 
he has risen they begin to fade back into grey again. 
All flame himself, he puts all other out. It is a 
strange effect. The sun here wants his state. He has 
been up but a moment, yet, but for a very tempered 
glow just about him, all light and all colour 1s gone. 
Soon it will be all gone, for into the great grey cloudy 
continent that broods upon the one clear space and 
spreads from it, illimitable as the sky itself, he, “‘ the 
King of Glory,” is now entering, and there, in all 
probability, he will be for the rest of the sombre day. 
Here in the Shetlands the sky that waits for the sun is 
a much more wonderful sight than the actual sunrise, 
whereas elsewhere I have seen it throb to his coming 
and relume at his torch. 
Walking to the caves, I miss my way and long over- 
shoot the point. This is a pity, for it has grown 
lighter yonder, and I do not wish to disturb the shags, 
some of whom, no doubt, roost near the entrance. 
However, when I get there, the island is still dark and 
shrouded, and sitting, as I have to, with my face to the 
western sea, that, too, lies in a grey-blue something 
that is neither light nor dark. Through it and over 
it the Skerries Lighthouse still throws at regular in- 
tervals its revolving beam, showing that it still counts 
as night. The shags do not seem to wait for the true 
morning—the one over to the east. Many of them 
have flown out to sea like shadows, or great, uncouth 
bats, yet I hardly think they can have seen me in the 
ereyness after I had sat down. Iam not sure whether 
