170 THE BIRD WATCHER 
had the wings spreagout, after its fashion, and 
looked thus, and in its “ pride of place,” absurdly like 
the heraldic eagle of some cock-crowing nationality or 
other: American, Austrian, Russian, or any of them 
—for they all crow and will all, one day, “yield the 
crow a pudding.” 
What month in the year was it that King Lear was 
turned out into the storm? This is August, but what 
a night! I can see no farther than a few paces out- 
side the hut. All is mist, with spit-fire storms of rain, 
and a wind that seems as though it would blow the 
ness into the sea. “A brave night to cool a courtesan 
in,” and so it was, last night; nor did it greatly difter 
the night before. 
The wind is not so pleasant to hear at night-time 
here as it is in England. I cannot lie and listen to it 
with the same feelings. It has not the same poetry, 
for there are no trees for it to sigh and moan through, 
and therefore it cannot produce those sad, weird, 
mysterious sounds which appeal so powerfully to the 
imagination. Instead, it strikes the hut with sudden 
bangs and blows which upset one’s nerves and have an 
irritating effect upon one. There is noise, racket, 
and bluster, but no mystery, no haunting mournful- 
ness. It plays no “eolian harps amongst the trees.” 
No, the wind here is “the fierce Kabibonokka”’ 
that— 
«¢ Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
F lapped the curtain of the doorway,” 
