THE CAPTURE OF THE WEEN. 115 



knee on the peat I slipped back as if I had been 

 attempting to climb a steep hillside composed of 

 soft-surfaced butter. I was so afraid of injuring 

 my wee captive, which I held in my right hand, 

 that I only used my elbow to assist me in climb- 

 ing up the bank. After two or three attempts I 

 managed to crawl high enough to hand the Wren to 

 my brother. On finally emerging I was smothered 

 with peat. Every button on my waistcoat had 

 scraped up its quantum, and the links of my watch- 

 chain were filled with the evil -smelling stuff. 



A hundred feet or so below the place where 

 we captured the young Wren we could see several 

 Fulmar Petrels sitting on their eggs, and my brother 

 determined to go down after a picture. By follow- 

 ing a ledge for some distance, and then carefully 

 working his way down crevices, with his face to 

 the cliff and his camera held by a strap which he 

 gripped firmly betwixt his teeth much in the same 

 way a Fox is said to carry a heavy Goose to his 

 lair he got near to one bird. During the time 

 occupied by his descent I was lying on a spur of 

 rock at full length intently watching through my 

 binoculars the bird he was making for. When he 

 got pretty close up to her, I saw the Fulmar squirt 

 a quantity of amber-coloured oil at him. It travelled 

 three or four feet, describing a kind of half -circle 

 and falling short of the mark. 



As the photographer got nearer and commenced 

 to fix up his apparatus amongst some huge boulders, 

 I noticed the bird moving her head and neck rapidly 

 up and down as if trying to remove some obstacle 

 from her throat. In less than two minutes she 

 again ejected a quantity of oil, and as my brother 

 had actually crept within a yard of her, with much 

 greater precision and effect. Some of the oil landed 



