124 Idylls of the Field. 



path of golden ripples that lies along the waves, a 

 rolling sea-fog sweeps fast along the hill. 



The groups of puffins vanish in the streaming mist. 

 The rocky stage and all its feathered actors fade behind 

 the cold gray curtain. 



But still the voices of the gulls sound ghostlike 

 through the cloud ; the chorus of the drifting razor- 

 bills rises faintly from the sea. Still, without pause, 

 there hurries by unseen the rush of innumerable 

 wings. 



