IN THE SHETLANDS L53 
and above which, dominating it as an organ does 
lesser instruments—or like “that deep and dreadful 
organ-pipe, the thunder”—there rolls, at intervals, 
one of the most extraordinary voices, surely, that 
ever issued from the throat of a bird: a rolling, 
rumbling volume of sound, so rough and deep, yet 
so full, grand, and sonorous, that it seems as though 
the very cliffs were speaking—ending sometimes in 
something like a gruff laugh, or, as some will have 
it, a bark. 
This marvellous note is the nuptial one of the 
guillemot, or, rather, it is that, swelled and multiplied 
by the echoes to which it gives rise, and which roll 
and mutter along the face of the precipice, and mingle 
with the dash of the waves. The effect is most 
striking when heard at a little distance, and especially 
across the chasm that divides one precipice from 
another. Under these circumstances it is less the 
actual cry itself than what, by such help, it becomes, 
that impresses one. Uttered quite near, by some bird 
that stands conspicuous on the ledge one looks down 
upon, the sound is less impressive, though still extra- 
ordinary enough. It can then be better understood, 
and resolves itself into a sort of jode/, long continued 
and having a vibratory roll in it. It begins usually 
with one or two shorter notes, which have much the 
syllabic value of “ harah, harah”’—first 4 as in “hat,” 
with the accent on the last syllable, as in ‘‘ hurrah.” 
Very commonly the outcry ends here, but otherwise 
the final “rah” is prolonged into the sound I speak 
I 
