AN AFTERNOON OFF. 
f Nica flock was arranged in a long, irregular 
group in the middle of the field, each 
bird lying down, or, as it is termed, ‘sitting’ 
down; each bird with its head tucked back 
under one wing ; each bird asleep, except two 
or three who were on their feet and alert, 
acting as sentinels in a very thorough manner. 
They were sea-gulls off duty from their 
nests, beautiful birds in the snow-white and 
gray livery of the sea, with chocolate-brown 
‘night-caps.’ 
Suddenly the whole flock launched forward, 
shook out narrow, long wings, and were in the 
air beating upwind. Certainly the sentinels 
had warned the rest, but how, seeing that 
none had uttered a sound, I cannot imagine. 
But the field knew them no more. 
Away behind them the dwindling field was 
bare. Nothing moved on its surface, or above 
the green grass, or along the hedges hazy with 
green—nothing, except one thing. 
Right in the field, just exactly where the 
flock of gulls had been resting, a fleck of 
white—truly, it might have been no more than 
a wind-captured scrap of paper—danced about. 
It was the white shirt-front of a weasel, who 
