2170 The Zoologist— June, 1870. 



lightly paddling about in groups, and the low lion-shaped rock 

 beneath me is thickly covered with them. In their flight, also, one 

 can distinguish at a glance the difference between the razorbill and 

 the guillemot: the head of the razorbill auk seems thicker and 

 blunter, owing to its thick bill ; it has more white on the side of the 

 neck, and moreover has a habit of rolling or turning a little to one 

 side, so as to present at one time the breast, and at another the back, 

 to our view. 



And now the sea-fowl are gradually settling to rest, as we gather 

 our spoil — five or six heavy birds slung over my shoulder from the 

 gun, and pockets full of eggs, which the slightest bump against the 

 rock would smash. Mac has an old shirt loosely tied round his 

 waist, filled with eggs, all round his body, so that the slightest slip 

 or touch against the rock-side and an indescribable "squelsh" of 

 eggs would be the result. We slowly and cautiously toil up the 

 rock-face, creeping through slits of rock, wriggling along over 

 hanging places, balancing ourselves along the ledges, taking a few 

 birds at a time over the more diflicult places; slowly we ascend till 

 we reach the place where we left ray brother : we find him with 

 several puffins, which increase our load. 



And slowly the darkness is stealing over the sky, the last rosy 

 blushes have long since faded, the wind has sunk to rest, and nought 

 is heard save the sob of the wavelets against the rock, the muffled 

 thunder of the waves in the caverns, and the cries of the ever-wakeful 

 sea-fowl as they settle down, each on its own egg or nest — the one 

 little spot which for a few weeks chains those wandering, restless 

 spirits, the rest of the year being spent in wandering far along coast and 

 sea — here is their home and rest ! ¥ar, far across the waste of ever- 

 moving waves, more than fifty miles off, a speck of light is shining 

 calmly, brightly, in the midst of miles of sunken treacherous rocks and 

 passionate waves, and alone looking calmly down on the the troubled 

 sleepless sea : the mother of the tides shows her crescent face, 

 timidly peeping out of the dark thick clouds which have settled down 

 over the splintered "Coolins" of Skye, her silvery beams lying on 

 the restless sea in a quivering thread of light long drawn out; and the 

 stars are peacefully shining down, and in the north-west the spirit of 

 departing day yet lingers in clear holy light behind the gloomy hills 

 of Mingalay. The top of the precipice is gained, and the glare of the 

 lighthouse floods the air, casting a lurid light on all around, as we 

 walk under the cross at the entrance of the buildings, and safe inside 



