142 THE BIRD WATCHER 
tight is the embracenggnt that if the mother moves 
a little, to one or the other side, the chick, moving its 
little legs, goes with her, partly pulled and partly 
waddling, but as though all in one with her. Thus 
they sit together, mother and child, for half an hour 
or more at a time; and, at these intervals, the chick 
wakes up, comes out of his feathery dark-closet, and, 
standing on the rock, preens himself, like a spruce 
little gentleman. Then, in a few seconds, he goes in 
again, and the mother, as ready as ever, covers him 
up as before. The wing is just like an arm, tenderly 
pressing the child to the mother’s side. But all this 
while—and I think I must have watched them about 
two hours—the other little chick stands free on the 
rock, and most busily preens himself. He is guarded, 
however, as I said. Had it not been for that other 
chick that I saw go for quite a little walk by itself, 
I should have thought that they always were, till they 
left the ledge. But probably as they get older they 
become just a trifle more independent, and possibly 
also the size of the ledge or cranny they are born on 
makes a difference. 
A more marked or prettier picture of maternal 
love than this mother guillemot sitting thus on the 
bare, cold ledge above the great sea, and closely 
clasping her little one to her side, I do not think all 
bird life has to offer. Her feelings, too, are written 
in her expression ; her looks are full of love, and of 
peace, which is ever ready to pass into anxious care 
and solicitude. It is good that sportsmen are not 
