98 A PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE 



Looking westward, we are not a dozen miles from 

 the sea, and the birds are equally at home in fresh 

 and salt water. It alights at last well out from the 

 shore, where the limestone crag rises highest out of 

 the water. The bird for the greater part of a minute 

 remains motionless on the surface, with neck erect, 

 surveying its surroundings before getting to work. 

 Now it has dived. The still black water into which 

 it has gone down is said by the simple country folk 

 to be bottomless. You know it is not, but you 

 know also that it is deep sixty feet at least and 

 the bird will reach the bottom. The moments go 

 by, and it does not reappear ; a man, you think, 

 could not hold his breath so long ; and yet it does 

 not return. At last, after what appears a surpris- 

 ingly long interval, it emerges. The long neck is not 

 now erect, but is held in position as if the bird were 

 panting after a supreme effort. Now it raises its 

 head again, and you see that it has not returned 

 empty. It has got something in its beak, something 

 which twists and knots itself about the outstretched 

 neck. The bird jerks and tosses its head in the 

 effort to swallow it ; it is an eel, you see plainly, an 

 eel which must have been brought up from the 

 depths below one, too, which is by no means 

 resigned to its fate, and which is resisting to the last. 

 With no inconsiderable effort the bird at last suc- 

 ceeds in swallowing the prey, after which it sits 

 for an interval quietly on the water resting after its 

 exertion. 



Now it is down again, but it soon returns, this 

 time empty. It is off again, and after another pro- 

 longed absence it returns with a second eel, and the 

 same struggle between the fish and its captor is 



