OUT OF THE DEPTHS 107 



contemptuously termed the black-headed laugh- 

 ing gulls, which come to be fed every morning 

 after breakfast on the lawn outside the library 

 window. Before I have begun to whistle twenty 

 at least are flying all round me ; and they are 

 down upon the grass, fighting for the sopped 

 toast and fishes' heads before I have emptied 

 the bowl of scraps which have been saved for 

 their breakfast from ours. Certainly, in this 

 open weather they no longer require the charity 

 which, in time of winter snow and frost, first 

 brought them to our door, but even if it impairs 

 their moral fibre, we cannot resist feeding them 

 still. I linger a short time, watching one greedy 

 fellow choking over a large bone, and another 

 nicknamed Cross-patch who, with outstretched 

 neck and ruffled feathers, tries to drive his com- 

 panions away ; and then start hurriedly for 

 Duntroon, with my pea-rifle on my shoulder. 

 A fresh north-westerly breeze is blowing, and 

 a few white clouds are hurriedly chasing one 

 another across the blue sky, and telling rather 

 of the shower of last night than promising rain 

 for to-day. The glass is rising not has been 

 rising. There is an important distinction here. 

 Some say you should never trust the glass on 

 the West Coast, but this is incorrect. You 

 should watch it narrowly, and then it is just 

 as truthful as elsewhere, although the changes 

 are more rapid. Your confidence, however, 



