Cliff-Birds, and their Colonies. 93 



to one's vantage-ground on the cliff, 

 is a colony of Puffins. 



Sailors call them Tom Noddies, 

 and gazing at them now it is easy 

 to guess why. There they sit, 

 whole ranks and regiments of them, 

 bolt upright, becking and bowing as 

 though moved by springs. Their 

 enormous bills point vertically over 

 their little smooth waistcoats, their 

 bead-like eyes glisten, and they keep 

 on, every mother's chick of them, 

 gravely nod-nod-nodding, like so 

 many porcelain Chinese mandarins. 



Each pair of Puffins has but one 

 youngster (can it be the position of 

 only child that help the creature to 

 be so preternaturally grave?), but 

 they fuss over their single hope and 

 pride in a way that must surprise 

 the Eider-ducks, who take care of 

 their families of twelve or fourteen 

 in the calmest and most leisurely 

 manner. The grotesque little 

 Puffins do nothing calmly; and as 



