Among the Water-Fowl 



compass, again under clear skies, with calm summer 

 sea. As we approach it is usual to see about 

 thirty birds, some of them in the water just off 

 the island, others sitting on the rocks, conspicuous 

 with their deep green-black bodies and the large 

 white patch on each wing. Watching a chance, 

 we run the boat up on a flat ledge and haul it well 

 out. The Guillemots fly, all that are in sight, 

 but there are nearly as many more in under the 

 rocks upon their nests, if our visit is within a month 

 after the middle of June, at about which date the 

 eggs are laid. 



Now comes the awkward and possibly painful 

 part ot the procedure, if we would see their beauti- 

 ful eggs — selecting a hole under some rock, partic- 

 ularly if there be droppings about the entrance, to 

 get down flat on on one's face and try to look in. 

 It may require many attempts of this kind before a 

 discovery quickens the pulse. Knees are bruised, 

 the back is tired and the neck is lamed. It seems 

 as though there were a million stones to look under, 

 and even thirty nests among them seem discourag- 

 ingly few. But success is bound to follow. There 

 is one flat rock where, every season that I have 

 come, there has been a nest, so we will look there. 

 Yes, there is the bird squatting far underneath. She 

 sees us and scurries further back, leaving her two 

 handsomely blotched eggs. The stone weighs 

 more than a ton, so we cannot move it, nor are the 

 eggs within arm's reach. But with apiece of drift- 

 wood, if we wish, we can pry them out over the 

 pebbles, among which, without any soft lining, they 

 are laid. There is little danger of breaking them, 



88 



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