To Mountain Tarn 



The tern grasps its prey with the bill and dives 

 head first. The osprey uses its feet and drops, 

 so that it may have them ready. The tern's 

 dive is clean, and with a minimum of splash, the 

 water rising over it in a bell-like arch. The 

 certainty with which either strikes, after the 

 measurable time of passage through the air, and 

 the large proportion of catches, lead one almost 

 to assume a species of fascination, as though the 

 quarry were paralysed by the impending fate. 

 A shoal of sand-eels will broaden the mark for 

 the tern. The trout will poise, as the osprey in 

 the air, and remain suspended. 



Say the fish has moved and goes out of 

 sight, or beyond the direct reach of the stoop, 

 or such swerve as is possible, the osprey will 

 arrest its motion within a yard of the surface and 

 avoid the dive. All this is done by the tern. 

 And with a still more marvellous dexterity, inas- 

 much as the difficulty of catching itself up, in 

 a bird going down head first, is necessarily 

 greater. Slightly loose and pointed back, the 

 wings are ready for instant use, in case of the 

 plunge being needless. 



The environment of the tern, if less idyllic 

 than that of the osprey, less restful, less varied, 

 undefined by a charming circle of shore line, 

 unshadowed by the smooth outline of investing 

 hills, has still the blue-grey water breaking in 

 silver ripples on the yellow sand, the weird dunes, 



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