IN THE SHETLANDS 125 
to be in one piece, without a joint ; though, just when 
the wind catches them freshly, and drives the bird 
swiftly along, they are turned slightly upwards to- 
ward the tips, through the momentary yielding of 
the quills. Strange though it may seem, this straight- 
ness—almost stiffness—of the wing-contour adds to— 
nay, makes—the grace of the fulmar petrel’s flight, and 
the pronounced bend at the joint, which, in the gull 
and kittiwake, causes the forepart of the wing to slope 
backwards in a marked degree, looks almost clumsy 
by comparison. The reason, I think, is that the 
petrel’s straight, thin, flat-pressed wings look so 
splendidly set to the wind, suggesting a graceful 
ship—lateen-rigged—in fullest sail, whilst the others 
seem timidly furled and reefed, by the side of them. 
Sometimes, indeed, the wings do bend just a little— 
for, after all, they have a joint—but the straight-set 
attitude is more germane to them, and soon they 
assume it again, shooting forward so briskly, yet 
softly, that one seems to hear a soft little musical 
click. 
And thus this dream and joy of glorious motion, 
this elemental spirit of a bird, floats and flickers 
along, cradled in air, looking like a shadow upon it, 
sweeping and gliding, rising and falling, in circles of 
consummate ease. No, this is not dominion, but union 
and sweet accord. There is no in-spite-of, no proud 
compelling, here. Lighter than the air that it rides 
on, the bird seems married to it, clasps it as a bride. 
