244 THE BIRD WATCHER 
up each bird as itsqpeak was finished, and given it 
several good coatings. That is what it looks like, 
and so close do the little toy things stand, and so 
little do they seem to think or care about you that, 
with the proper materials, you almost think you could 
do it yourself; yes, and would like to try, too—if only 
there were a few with the paint off—black coats, white 
waistcoats, vermilion legs and all: except the beak 
and face, which are beyond you, unless, indeed, you 
are an artist—and a clever one——yourself. 
It is wonderful sitting here. To have a dozen or 
twenty of these little painted puffins on a rock within 
three paces of you, in full view, with nothing what- 
ever intervening, some standing up, others couched 
on their breasts, some preening, some shaking their 
wings, most of them unconscious of your presence, 
a few just looking at you, from time to time, with an 
expression of mild curiosity unmixed with fear, seem- 
ing to say ‘And who may you be, sir?” is almost 
a new sensation. 
Yes, this is Tammy-Norie-land. Puffins are every- 
where. They dot all the steep, green slopes, and 
cluster on the flat surfaces or salient angles of half 
the grey boulders that pierce the soil, or lie scattered 
all about it. Great crowds of them float on the sea, 
and other crowds oppress the air with constant, fast- 
beating pinions, passing continually from land to sea 
and from sea to land again, whilst many, on the latter 
journey, even though laden with fish, circle many 
times round, in a wide circumference, before finally 
