THREE-ARCH ROCKS 19 



rookeries, of crowded eggs, and huddled young, 

 hairy or naked or wet from the shell. Every time 

 my fingers felt for a crack overhead, they touched 

 something warm that rolled or squirmed; every 

 time my feet moved under me for a hold, they 

 pushed in among top-shaped eggs that turned on 

 the shelf or went over far below; and whenever I 

 hugged the pushing wall I must bear off from a 

 mass of squealing, struggling, shapeless things, 

 just hatched. And down upon me, as rookery 

 after rookery of old birds whirred in fright from 

 their ledges, fell crashing eggs and unfledged 

 young, that the greedy gulls devoured ere they 

 touched the sea. 



An alarmed wing-beat, the excited turn of a 

 webbed foot, and the murre's single egg or its 

 single young was sent over the edge, so narrow 

 was the footing for Life, so yawning the pit be- 

 low. But up out of the churning waters, up from 

 crag to crag, clambers Life, by beak, by claw, 

 felling, clinging, climbing, with the odds forever 

 favoring Death, yet with Life forever finding 

 wings. 



I was midway in my climb, at a bad turn, 

 edging inch by inch along, my face hard-pressed 



