A WHITE ROCK-ROSE 



Y hunting-ground hangs midway between 

 earth and sea, where huge limestone cliffs 

 stand firm-footed in the blue waters of the 

 Channel, where wondrous sunshine liorhts 

 their dark clefts and crannies and wide surfaces, set- 

 ting them agleam with hues of lemon and orange 

 and pearly grey, where shadows from passing clouds 

 or oncoming night paint their great foreheads with 

 purple by day and in tones of sombre monochrome at 

 sunset time. Here dwell numberless sea-birds, that 

 greet me with cries and protests, because they have 

 knowledge of little seagull squabs perched far below 

 on the dizzy ledges, and count those treasures the 

 object of my search. So they rush up on broad 

 wings from beneath, swoop down from above, sweep 

 and swirl every way, some crying, some whistling, 

 some uttering a sort of cynic laughter as they speculate 

 on my ultimate destination, if I — a creature wingless — 

 venture nearer to their homes. Here, too, dwell the 

 things I seek. Wide, gentle undulations stretch in- 

 land, shimmering under a summer noon, and the short 

 herbage makes proper setting for the minute gems of 

 the flowers. Mother-o'-thyme spreads purple patches 

 H 97 



