THE BIRD-BERGS OF LAPLAND. 39 



split open and laid out to dry, while trestles are also erected that 

 other fish may be exposed for the same purpose to the sharp and 

 drying air. From time to time the rocks and frames are cleared 

 of dried fish, which are packed in bundles and stored in sheds, but 

 only that room may be found for others which in the meantime 

 have been caught and prepared. 



For months the bustle continues, and the traffic is uninterrupted; 

 for months the North continues to exchange its treasures with the 

 South. Then in the days when about noon a clear light in the 

 south heralds the coming of the sun still hidden, or when the first 

 rays of sunlight fall for a brief space upon the land, the rich catch 

 comes gradually to an end. The dried cod and ling are carried from 

 the storing sheds to the ships, all available space from keel to deck is 

 filled up, and the fishermen prepare to journey homewards, or abroad 

 into the wide world. One ship after another hoists its brown-edged 

 sails and steers away. 



The North becomes quieter again, more deserted the land, deso- 

 late the sea. At last, by the time of the spring equinox, all the 

 migrant fishermen have left the fishing grounds, and all the fish 

 have returned to the depths of the sea. But the sea is already 

 sending forth other children to people afresh the straits and sounds, 

 and along with them the skerries and islands; and soon from those 

 same cliffs, at whose base there was but lately all the bustle of the 

 winter, millions of bright bird eyes look down upon the waves. 



It is a deeply-affecting trait in the life of all true sea-birds that 

 only two causes can move them to visit the land: the joyous spring- 

 time sense of new-awakening love, and the mournful foreboding of 

 approaching death. Not even Winter with its long night, its 

 cold, and its storms can drive them to the land; they are proof 

 against all the terrors of the North, and seek their food upon or 

 under the waves; not even the threatening jaws of voracious fish 

 scare them ashore. They may alight occasionally, but only for a 

 short time, often on a solitary island in the sea, to oil their feathers 

 more thoroughly than can be done in the water. But when, with 

 the sun's first brightness, love stirs in their breasts, all, old and 

 young alike, though they may have to swim and fly thousands of 



