A LONG PROCESSION 



Grove. One cold, comfortless afternoon (May 

 28), with a gale blowing the dust about, I clam- 

 bered out over the big rocks (" Lovers' Point," 

 I have heard the place called), seeking a shelt- 

 ered nook from which to enjoy the tremen- 

 dous surf ; and, having settled myself to my sat- 

 isfaction, I raised the field-glass to look at a 

 passing gull, or some such commonplace object, 

 when, behold ! out there in the bay, beyond the 

 scope of unassisted eyesight, there were millions 

 of birds (so they looked), the water and the air 

 immediately above it swarming with them. And 

 such a commotion as they were in, they and the 

 raging waters ! Such swiftness of flight, such 

 splashing and dashing ! 



I was some minutes in shaking myself together. 

 Then I said, " Shearwaters ! " 



I had only read of them. I had never so much 

 as hoped to see them ; but here they were in life. 

 And such life ! They did not plunge from aloft 

 like gannets, or brown pelicans, or most terns. 

 The highest of them could scarcely be said to be 

 up in the air at all. They skimmed the surface of 

 the water, and, as it were, dashed into the white- 

 capped waves on a level. Shearwaters in all liter- 

 alness. Between their intense and multitudinous 

 activity and the extraordinary tumult of the water 

 there is no beginning to describe the anima- 

 73 



