Watching the Brant Grow Big. 63 



of the waves, the crepitation of shifting 

 sand, the rustle of the moving tide and 

 the voices of distant brant and gulls. The 

 cold clouds overhead have no comfort in 

 them. My teeth chatter and a tear runs 

 down my right cheek. Wet sand sticks 

 to the skin between my red fingers. One 

 small mouthful of just the right thing 

 suffices to start in my innermost depths 

 a dull cherry red glow that gradually 

 diffuses itself in grateful warmth to the 

 middle of every bone and to the ends of 

 my wet sandy fingers. Who would object 

 to that, I 'd like to know ? Now then for 

 another brant. There comes one from away 

 up the bay. Is he going or coming ? Com- 

 ing ! No going ! Well, it all depends on 

 which end his head is placed, and I can- 

 not tell from here. He is coming ! Big- 

 ger he grows and rounder he appears, and 

 being alone will seek company. He sees 

 the decoys and comes straight toward 

 them without regard to the direction of 

 the wind. Now he stops flying and comes 

 tilting along unsteadily on curved set 

 wings, balancing, sidling, balancing, com- 



