AMONG THE WATER-FOWL 



the crest curls, and the avalanche descends. But 

 that very instant the wary creature leaps at the 

 intruder. The knife-like bill cleaves a way, and in 

 a moment there rides the Loon safe on the other 

 side. 



Here is yet another picture. The cold, gray 

 dawn of a November morning breaks over the 

 misty, heaving sea. My boat is anchored quarter 

 of a mile from shore. Very dim, as yet, appear the 

 bluffs of Manomet, and below them the rocks, piled 

 there by the Titanic forces of the winters' gales. 

 From the north comes the bellow of the whistling- 

 buoy off "the Gurnet," at the entrance of old 

 Plymouth harbour. The fishermen, one by one, 

 are rowing out past in their dories to haul their 

 lobster-pots and to fish for cod, every hail of theirs 

 made audible by the megaphone of the mist. The 

 gunners, too, are taking their station in the line 

 that custom decrees shall begin at " the gunning- 

 rock," and the plunge of anchors and the rattling 

 of chains is heard. Presently the whistling of wings 

 makes me look up, to see gray forms that rapidly 

 pass into the haze. Soon there arises a series of 

 wild, laughter-like cries, weird sounds indeed, yet 

 fitting perfectly with the surroundings. Nearer 

 they come, and nearer, but it seems like minutes 

 before I see one, two, three great birds, with long 

 necks widely outstretched, and feet extended rudder- 

 like behind, rapidly advancing, a hundred feet 

 above the water, straight toward the boat. If they 

 come on, they are safe, for I have no desire to hurt 

 them. But if they swerve and cross the line at 

 another point, the peal of guns will ring out, and 



40 



