118 THE BIRD WATCHER 
never thought so eitheggetitles, as most authors now- 
adays have good cause to know, are not always one’s 
own. I never compare birds to angels, for fear of 
thinking slightingly of the latter, and though I admit 
that, in the hands of a skilled artist, a pelican’s wings 
on a pair of human shoulders may make a pretty 
enough combination, and that the whole human body 
need not /ook so heavy and unmanageable as it, no 
doubt, would be in reality, still, as far as flight is 
concerned, I confess I think it takes a bird to beat 
a bird. Angels are out of it in my opinion, or, if 
they are not, at least my powers of imagination in 
regard to them are. I shall always think of “ Fulmar 
Petrel” as flying much better than the best of them, 
though, as his habit of squirting oil does not in the 
least degree lessen his aerial grace and beauty, as far 
as that alone is concerned I see no reason why he 
should not be half an angel, at any rate, if not a 
whole one. 
Yes, here are powers indeed ! What buoyant ease ! 
What marvellous, least-action grace! Surely no 
bird has ever flown before. This—this only—is 
flight ; for a moment, at any rate, one forgets even 
the nightjar. And yet all these storm-riding, blast- 
defying powers belong to one of the most placid- 
looking, delicately dove-like beautiful beings of all 
air’s kingdom. How soft is its colouring! How 
gentle its look! Was there ever a more “ delicate 
Ariel” than this? 
One cannot, indeed, watch for long the flight of 
