INGONISH, BY LAND AND SEA. 47 



full height, I had the satisfaction of seeing the 

 monster shrink into itself with fear, turn its 

 ugly countenance seaward, and then flap away 

 over the hot, sparkling waves until almost out of 

 sight. When half a mile out, it turned and flew 

 slowly along the crest of the waves towards the 

 rocky cliffs of Middle Head, and then dropped 

 suddenly into the water, upon which it remained 

 bobbing like a duck. 



Free from this incubus, I looked once more 

 upon the home of the ravens, the hunchbacked 

 pine, the shattered rocks, and, far above them, 

 the cliffs upon whose inaccessible ledges young 

 ravens first see light. The surroundings were 

 those of a sturdier bird than the crow. There 

 were no gently sighing forests, waving corn-fields, 

 or placid lakes here, but instead the stern crags, 

 rude sea, and broken rocks, makers of deep, 

 angry music, harsh discords, and wild, sorrow- 

 ful refrains. The crow boasts from the moment 

 his loud voice first comes back to his ears from 

 the echoing hillside, he steals from the time he 

 sees the corn blades start from the furrow, and 

 he shuns danger as often as the tread of man or 

 deer snaps a dry twig in the forest. The raven's 

 croak can wake no echo to match the sea's cho- 

 rus, his food is not won by theft, and dangers 

 which come from sky and tossing wave are not 

 such as to stimulate craft or to inculcate wari- 

 ness. 



