IN THE SHETLANDS gt 
from this last stage of its inmate—this free flitting, 
gliding thing—than does the round, squat, stolid 
chick, which in appearance is nearer to an egg than 
to a full-blossomed bird. 
The mother fulmar—for I suppose it is the mother 
—cossets the chick as she sits beside it, leaning 
tenderly over it, and nibbling with her bill amidst its 
long, soft, white fluff, the chick sitting still, the while, 
with its beak held open, but not at all as though it 
were thinking of food. Sometimes, by inadvertence, 
the mother pricks the chick a little, with her bill, 
upon which it turns indignantly towards her, with 
distended jaws. She, to cover her ma/ladresse, does 
the same, but in a dignified, parental manner, as 
though it were she who had cause to be angry. But 
it is easy to see that she is really a little ashamed 
of herself, and purposes to be more careful another 
time. Mother and chick often sleep side by side 
on the rock, and then it is noticeable that whilst the 
mother has her head turned and partially hidden 
amongst the feathers of the back—“ under her wing,” 
as one says—the chick’s is often held straight in the 
usual manner. Not always, however: at other times, 
it is disposed of in the same way. As far as I can 
see, the chick is in the charge of one parent only. 
On several occasions a bird, which I suppose to be 
the other one, has flown in, and settled on the rock 
near, but always, on its coming nearer than some 
three feet or so, the one in charge, distending its 
jaws, and with threatening gestures, has uttered an 
