54 —And a good big early bird for breakfast. 
coming to her and showing too much interest, she lowered both 
wings to the ground so as to keep her meal quite private. She 
persevered for a long time; but, turning away for a moment, I 
miss the end, as when I look again she is gone. I have just been 
thinking that I have never seen these birds drink any water ; 
considering the position of the eyrie, it is as well that they require 
none. Then ensues a long wait ; the eyrie is deserted even by the 
flies ; twilight comes and the rocks gradually lose their shadows 
and solid appearance, becoming a ghostly grey, and the whole scene 
looks unreal. Just as I am despairing, about 9 p.m., of anything 
further taking place, I hear a great flapping of wings and, looking out, 
find all the young in the eyrie gazing eagerly seawards, whimpering 
and flapping their wings. Then suddenly the whimpering grows 
louder, the wing-flapping more frantic, and for a moment I catch 
sight of the Falcon standing on B, holding a gory something in her 
beak, with two little red legs dangling from it—the headless trunk 
of a puffin. The next moment she is lost among the flapping wings, 
wings mottled, as it were, with blobs of cotton-wool. As the flapping 
subsides, I catch sight of her again in the gloaming. She stands 
facing me with her young around her, and they are all bowing their 
heads up and down with a subdued chorus of whimpers. As she 
stands there, taller and darker than her young, with her black 
cap, she looks like a cowled monk engaged with his acolytes in 
some mysterious rite. Eagerly pressing on her, they gradually 
drive her backwards until all are lost to sight under the rocks ; 
but still the whimpering continues. In a few minutes the young 
crowd into view again, and I perceive the Falcon on C. She has 
her back to the eyrie, is staring haughtily towards me and pays 
no attention to the suppliant crowd behind her. Then she is gone, 
the whimpering dies out, the young go one by one, the gloom deepens 
into night and I settle down to sleep with the thunder of the 
breakers as a lullaby, interspersed with the reedy grunting of the 
shag coming home late to her nest below me. When I awake in 
the chill dawn to the thunder of the surf, I find the eyrie grey and 
silent and turn to the comfort of hot tea from a Thermos, from 
which I am disturbed, at 3.45 a.m., by loud whimpering, and am 
just in time to see the Falcon, with some effort, dragging a razorbill 
