WHEN THE NIGHT FALLS. 217 



A confused piping, wailing, screaming, and howl- 

 ing can be heard at times, faint, certainly, yet quite 

 distinguishable. These are the voices of the fowl on 

 the sand-bar, complaining, for they know that before 

 long they will have to leave their resting-place. One 

 solitary black-backed gull shows for a minute or so, 

 his wings slanted, for there is a capful of wind up 

 where he floats along. He has gone again to show 

 himself elsewhere overhead, just to let the world 

 know that Neptune's white sea-horses will leap the 

 bar before long. 



Those who have from sheer necessity studied the 

 ways of the birds that live on the waters round the 

 coast and on the shores, never question the signs 

 the birds give them, and they at once make pre- 

 parations, so far as it may be in their power, to 

 avert coming disaster. 



The fog masses again, and floats in towards the 

 shore. The lighthouse looms through it for a time, 

 then we only see the lights. A muttering growl 

 comes over the sea and dies down as it passes over 

 the beach and sea-wall, to lose itself in the flats 

 beyond. 



Then comes a rush of wind, and all is still. The 



