CHAP. Xv.| ROCK-PIGEONS. 123 
aperture on my hands and knees, which led into a large and 
nearly dark cave, said to be the abode of otters. Before I could 
set fire to some dry fir-roots, which we brought with us, my dog 
was barking furiously, some distance within the cave. We got 
our light and went to examine what he had. By the tracks, he 
had evidently come on an otter, who had made his escape into a 
small hole which seemed to go into the very heart of the rocks, 
and from which we had no chance of extracting him. This cave 
was too damp for the birds, but was much marked with the foot- 
steps of otters. Though the entry was so small, the cave itself 
was both lofty and extensive. 
As we floated along the coast, stopping at the mouths of several 
caves, and occasionally landing, we put up several large flocks of 
pigeons, and here and there cormorants and other sea-birds. On 
one shelf of the rocks, far up above the sea, was the nest of the 
raven. It was once inhabited by a pair of eagles, but is now quietly 
tenanted by the raven. These birds had flown ; but both young 
and old were flying about the tops of the cliff, croaking and playing 
fantastic antics, as if in great astonishment at our appearance ; for 
I fancy that they have very few visitants here. I tried a shot at 
one with a rifle-ball, but only splintered the rock at his feet. 
Some of the caves were of great extent, and very full of pigeons, 
old and young, several of which I killed. The birds were nearly 
all blue; here and there a sandy-coloured one, but no other 
variety. Having made our way a considerable distance along the 
coast, and the tide being now quite out, we landed on a green 
spot of grass that stretched down between the rocks to the water’s 
edge. Above our heads, and in every direction, were heron-nests ; 
some built in the clusters of ivy, and others on the bare shelves 
of rocks, The young ones were full grown, but still in the nests, 
standing upright and looking gravely at us. Though I thought 
it a shame to make any of them orphans, I took the opportunity 
of killing three fine old male herons, whose black feathers I 
coveted much for my salmon-flies; sitting quietly at the foot 
of the rocks, I could distinctly see which birds were well supplied 
with these feathers, as they flew in to feed their young over my 
head. The feathers that are so useful in fly-dressing are the 
black drooping feathers on the breast of the cock heron: neither 
the young bird nor the hen bird has them. While resting my 
