120 Idylls of the Field. 



under the cliff, among the piles of granite, puffins 

 start in scores from the ledges of the rocks. 



But when you pause in the shelter of a great block, 

 hoary with its long gray lichens, the birds return to 

 the resting-places from which your coming startled 

 them. 



Some of them, perched in little companies on their 

 favourite ledges, have not stirred at all, but allowed 

 you to pass almost within arm's length, without sign 

 of fear. 



One particularly pretty group of some fifty puffins 

 has collected on the shelves and ledges of a picturesque 

 pile of granite within a dozen yards. 



Nearer still, on a broad stone, hardly two yards 

 away, another company is gathering. One by one the 

 birds drop out of the flying stream and settle down 

 upon the stone. Then walking up to the edge, with 

 steps half dainty, half awkward, they stare at you with 

 odd, reproachful, inquisitive faces. 



A sudden rush of wings passes overhead ; a puffin 

 hovers over the rock before you, with legs hanging 

 down as if feeling for the land. It flaps its wings a 

 few times as if to settle its balance, and then takes its 

 place among the little crew of odd, upright figures, 

 half shy, half scared — some with heads turned drolly 

 on one side, that regard you with comical expres- 

 sion. 



A shadow falls from the rock overhead. You look 

 up. A puffin is standing just above you, with a fish 



