26 MUTTON BIRDS 



were like a map marked with the orbits of 

 innumerable stars. 



The Mutton Bird, in especial, I could never 

 willingly cease to watch, now high above the 

 island, now barely sweeping clear of the grasses 

 and fern, and at first with never a flicker of 

 wing to break the still evenness of its magnificent 

 flight. 



Although well acquainted with the Albatross, 

 I think this Petrel's night flight is almost a finer 

 display of volant power. There seemed to be 

 a pent energy, a fire of restlessness in the bird, 

 the more marvellous because of an entire 

 absence of any perceptible motive power. 

 Maybe it was the glamour of night or that the 

 emotion of the swiftly-wheeling bird moved 

 something in the man not stirred by the vaster, 

 slower balancings in distances more immense of 

 the Albatross. 



It was a never-ending interest to follow with 

 the eye one of these living, moving lines of flight, 

 to mark the earthward swoop, to trace it dark- 

 ling across the island's bulk, to link up once 

 again the half lost curve as it emerged black and 

 distinct against the pale, pure, evening sky. 



In each of these giant loops of flight, the bird 

 most nearly touched earth over the mouth of his 

 breeding burrow, but the speed at which the 

 point of attraction was passed, at first 

 gave hardly a hint of any desire to 

 land. After many revolutions there came 

 a time however, when a certain retarda- 

 tion of pace could be marked, and when 

 the faintest hesitant wing flicker, the merest 

 tremor of the extreme tips of the primaries 

 could be observed. Still later, always just over 



