MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 203 



landed when the sun shot through the banks, 

 promising us bright weather for our cameras, dry, 

 safe footing on the cHfFs, and a good night for 

 watching on the peak. 



It was hard to keep our heads on the way up 

 with the birds driving at us, as it was hard to keep 

 our feet on the rotten crumbling shelves and jut- 

 ting corners that offered us their treacherous sup- 

 port. But my head was kept busy and out of 

 mischief for most of the time with anxiety for 

 my son, who showed no anxiety or ordinary hu- 

 man responsibility at all. We were mounting by 

 ledge stages, each ledge the home of a colony of 

 birds, and so thick with exciting eggs and young 

 that the eleven-year-old boy was being forced to 

 let go of one or was being held back from the 

 other all the way. He climbed as if he had 

 been hatched on the peak of Shag Rock. The 

 rope about him was not necessary. Height and 

 depth and the awful space about us held no 

 terrors for him — such stuff is a live boy made 

 of! 



But all these things had terror enough for me, 

 and I was glad to get over the rim, in reach of 

 the top, although that gladness was troubled with 



