62 MY DEVON YEAR 



grass, twigs, and feathers, banked and strengthened 

 somewhat by the stonecrops and occasional scurvy- 

 grass, also plucked green, and woven into the fabric. 

 Heavily-mottled eggs of dark-brown hues lie here, 

 and as one climbs along the ledges, with hands in 

 the tussocks of the sea-pink, great birds, white 

 and grey, cry danger from lemon-coloured bills, 

 and mew aloud their fear, with notes that echo 

 musical against the cliffs. Here they perch and make 

 proper finials to the wild peaks and pillars ; here they 

 fling themselves out against the air and slide away 

 seaward ; here they dot the smooth green water below, 

 and lift up their voices together against fancied wrongs. 

 And sitting on a marble throne upon some lofty 

 cliff, as now I do, a man may call himself king, and 

 these his subjects. Fearful and distrustful they are, 

 conscious of intrusion, eloquent of outrage done ; even 

 as we cry against the fate that intrudes upon our 

 secure castle, or shatters our premeditated plan. We 

 lament likewise, and lift complaining voices against 

 the dark figure whose shadow suddenly strikes a 

 chill upon our nests ; and we view the changes and 

 chances of life as the gulls, having no discrimination, 

 regard any human oncoming. Neither can we appraise 

 the ultimate end and aim of these world- forces with 

 estimate more accurate than that with which these 

 birds judge me, when I, an unwinged, untrusted thing, 

 gaze upon the secrets of their homes in these dawn- 

 facing cliffs. 



