THROUGH THE YEAR 221 



in sun a full eight hours each day sun that I stood 

 and steeped myself in at nine in the morning how 

 can a February or March day on the islet be called by 

 another name than spring ? Hot sun straight from 

 the sea on such a morning gives the finest open-air 

 sensation in the world. An exaltation is in it. 



In this sun I once more went along the shore to 

 watch the dunlins' dead-perfect drill in the air. 

 In the morning they are always near the same spot. 

 They haunt one of the old sand and shingle beaches 

 that gently rise tier above tier from the sea at the 

 south side of the islet. There is no food for the 

 dunlins at these barren spots. Only a few skylarks 

 and stonechats seem to find food here. Some of 

 the tiers are all pebbles. Others have a very thin 

 layer of sand soil, where the pebbles are lichened 

 or moulded, and there is a wizen vegetation of sand- 

 worts and sea purslane, with Danish scurvy grass 

 and lichens that to the touch are dry and dead as 

 artificial leaves. Here the dunlins are on the wing, 

 going through the drill. 



The moment of all in this feat of flight is when the 

 whole dark regiment of wheeling, cutting, hanging 

 birds suddenly turns into a light, almost snow-white, 

 regiment ! 



Even natives of the islet, men or boys who care 

 little for the birds, know this sight well enough, and 

 will tell a stranger to mark it in the sunlight. It is 

 made by the flock presenting to the watcher the 

 breast and underparts and the under coverts of the 

 wing during a swish round. But, though this is 



