162 THE BIRD WATCHER 
wild bells to the wild sky.” And never let that sky 
be blue that it rings to, unless in pale, moist patches, 
drowning amidst watery clouds ; and never let there 
be a sun, to be called one, but only a glint and a 
gleaming, a storming of stormy light, a wet beam 
flung on a rain-cloud. Child of the mists, of the 
grey-eyed and desolate north-land, what hast thou 
to do with the robes of the vine and the olive? To 
be brief, I know of no cry, of no voice so exhilarating 
as that of this poetic bird. 
If the guillemot is less poetic, he is still more 
interesting as a close study—or ar least one can study 
him more closely. Coming to my ledge again this 
afternoon, I find both the little chicks reposing be- 
neath the parental wing, as described in the last 
chapter. It is a misty and mist-rainy day, which 
may incline them all the more to take shelter, if, 
indeed, they are open to such influences. But 
whether they are or not, they are not afraid to come 
out, and in about ten minutes there is an interest- 
ing scene. The partner of one of the two birds 
that have chicks flies on to the ledge with a fish 
that looks like a large-sized sardine in his bill. In- 
stantly two or three of the birds standing about 
begin to utter their curious cry—a kind of shriek- 
ing Swiss jode/, ending in barks—till it swells into 
a full chorus. Full of importance, and with a very 
paternal look, the new-comer bustles up to wife and 
child, and the latter, emerging with great vivacity, 
receives the fish and gulps it down whole, showing 
