48 Cornish Cliffs in Spring 



the neutral-tinted fog-bank fumbling like a blind 

 sea- creature along the shore, or resting for half a 

 morning in the gap between two out-stretched 

 heads. Presently the sunlight is faintly dimmed, 

 and a breath seems to pass across the crystal of the 

 sea ; in a few moments more, sky and sea are both 

 hidden around us, the cleft in which we are standing 

 is filled with a dance of grey vapour, scurrying 

 inland, and the ferns and bluebells of each hollow 

 begin to gather a quickening dew. 



The bird-life of many of these bays and headlands 

 is hardly less rich in interest than the verdure and 

 the flowers. The Cornish chough has not been seen 

 for a score of years or more in many of its old haunts 

 on the southern cliffs, though it is now beginning to 

 increase again, under protection, on the vaster preci- 

 pices of the north coast. Its chief home in these 

 isles is now in the south-west and west of Ireland. 

 But although the quaint red-billed crow is gone, and 

 his haunts are peopled by the assertive jackdaw, the 

 raven is still familiar on the rockier portions of the 

 south Cornish coast. By his large size and manner 

 of conscious dominion, he generally comes into 

 notice before many hours have been spent upon the 

 cliffs. In spite of his stronger and more emphatic 

 flight, it is often difficult to distinguish by the eye 

 the raven from his smaller kinsman the carrion 

 crow, since in these limpid fields of air it is hard 

 to judge the distance, and therefore the actual 

 size, of any remote object. But there is no 

 mistaking the raven's hoarse, sharp bark ; it is 

 a cry instinct with menace and defiance, and is 



