326 THE BIRD WATCHER 
has climbed up upogga buoy—the lower, wet part of 
him looks like that; the upper, alone, is himself. 
Then gradually he soaks all over, till he is, again, 
huge and indivisible, a great, naked, blue, greasy, 
oiled bladder,—yet firm still, as though he grew to 
the rock. But the end is now near. Sparkling and 
gleaming, the waves come tumbling in; they dance 
about him like fairies, like little familiar elves ; they 
slap him and pat him, lap up to—then over—his 
back, sway him this way and that, speak to him, call 
him by his familiar pet name, tell him it is time to 
go, until, at last, with a great somnolent heave, he 
floats, and they float him—it is done together—right 
off the now sunken rock: his body sinks down, his 
head, with the fur yet dry, remains, for a time, straight 
up in the water, then follows—his nose, to the last, 
still pointing, like the “stern finger” of “his duty” 
—not so stern as with us, though—“ heavenwards.” 
As he goes down, you see that his eyes are still shut— 
he continues to sleep. 
