62 SUMMER 



three. And here we had another and a different sight 

 of the wild life. It covered every crag. I clutched it 

 in my hands ; I crushed it under my feet ; it was thick 

 in the air about me. My narrow path up the face of 

 the rock was a succession of sea-bird rookeries, of 

 crowded eggs, and huddled young, hairy or naked or 

 wet from the shell. Every time my fingers felt for a 

 crack overhead they touched something warm that 

 rolled or squirmed; every time my feet moved under 

 me, for a hold, they pushed in among top-shaped eggs 

 that turned on the shelf or went over far below ; and 

 whenever I hugged the pushing wall I must bear off 

 from a mass of squealing, struggling, shapeless 

 things, just hatched. And down upon me, as rook- 

 ery after rookery of old birds whirred in fright from 

 their ledges, fell crashing eggs and unfledged young, 

 that the greedy gulls devoured ere they touched the 

 sea. 



I was midway in the climb, at a bad turn round a 

 point, edging inch by inch along, my face pressed 

 against the hard face of the rock, my feet and fingers 

 gripping any crack or seam they could feel, when 

 out of the deep space behind me I caught the swash 

 of waves. Instantly a cold hand seemed to clasp me 

 from behind. 



I flattened against the rock, my whole body, my 

 very mind clinging desperately for a hold, a fall- 

 ing fragment of shale, a gust of wind, the wing-stroke 

 of a frightened bird, enough to break the hold and 



