The bird watcher in the Shetlands, with some notes on seals--and digressions;

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IRD WATCHER IN THE SHETLANDS _ ee

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BIRD WATCHER
IN THE SHETLANDS.

WITH SOME NOTES ON SEALS
—AND DIGRESSIONS

BY

EDMUND SELOUS

NEW MORK: Ho oP DUTTON & CO;
1905

PREFACE

JN the spring of 1900 I paid my first visit to the
_~ Shetlands, and most of what I then saw is em-
bodied in my work Bird Watching. Two years
afterwards I went there again, arriving somewhat
later, and it is the notes made by me during this
second stay which fill the greater number of these
pages. They are my journal, written from day to
day, amidst the birds with whom I lived without
another companion, nor did I look upon them as
more than the rough material out of which I might,
some day, make a book. When it came to making
one, however, it struck me more and more forcibly
that I was taking elaborate pains to stereotype and
artificialise what was, at any rate, as it stood, an
unforced utterance and natural growth. I found, in
fact, that I could make it worse, but not better, so
I resolved not to make it worse. Except for a few
peckings, therefore, and minor interpolations—mostly
having to do with the working out of ideas jotted
down in the rough—I send it to press with this very
negative sort of recommendation, and with only the
hope added that what interested me so much will
interest others also, even through the veil of my

Vi PREFACE

writing. Besides birds, I was lucky enough this
time to have seals to watch, and I watched them hour
after hour and day after day. I believe I know them
better now, than I do anybody, or than anybody does
me; but that is not to say much, for, as the true
Russian proverb has it, “Another man’s soul is
darkness.” But I have them in my heart for ever,
and I would take them out of the Zoological Society’s
basins, and throw them back into the sea, if I could.

I have no doubt that these pages contain some
errors of observation or inference which I am not yet
aware of—but those who only glance at them may
sometimes be inclined to correct me, where, later,
I correct myself. It is best, I think, to let one’s mis-
takes stand recorded against one, for mistakes have
their interest, and often emphasize some truth.
Honesty, too, would suffer in their suppression—and
besides, if one has got in some idea or reflection that
pleases one, or a piece of descriptive writing that does
not seem amiss, how tiresome to have to scratch it out,
merely because it is founded on a wrong apprehension !
—the spire to come tumbling just for the want of a
base! For these reasons, therefore—especially the
last, when it applies—I have not suppressed my
errors, even where I happen to know them. There
they stand, if only to encourage others who may be
labouring in the same field as myself—which makes
one more high-ininded motive.

PREFACE Vil

For my digressions, etc.—for which I have been
taken to task—I hope this fresh crop of them will
make it apparent that they are a part of my method,
or, rather, a part of myself. I have still a tempera-
ment I find—and it gives me a good deal of trouble
—-but as soon as I have become a nonentity, I will
follow the advice given me, and write like one. I
would say more if I could, but I must not promise
what it is not in my power to perform.

EDMUND SELOUS

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CHAPTER

I.
II.

CONTENTS

My Istanp AcaIn!
SPOILER AND SPOILED .
From Darkness To LIGHT
DuckInGs AND BoBBINGSs
A VENGEFUL CoMMUNITY
METEMPSYCHOSIS

BiRD SYMPATHY
ENCHANTED CAVERNS .
Ducks anp Divers

FroM THE EDGE oF A PRECIPICE
DaRWINIAN EIDER-DUCKS
On THE Great NESS-SIDE
MoTHER AND CHILD .

‘¢ DREAM CHILDREN” .
New DEVELOPMENTS .
FLIGHT AND Fancy
MoutTus witH MEANINGS
LEARNING TO SoaR

THE Dance oF DEATH

PAGE

i CONTENTS

“XX. ‘By Anr OTHER Name”! nie
XXI. ‘Not Atways To THE STRONG” Hel SO
XXII. CuHrmpren oF THE Mists . j LOO
XXIII. Love on THE LEDGES : : SE Tisi
XXIV. Grouse ASPIRATIONS : JOS
XXV. UnorTHODox ATTITUDES . 5 ROR}
XXVI. Pep Piers Be hast : 28
XXVII. A Brrrer DisappoInTMENT ‘ 5) 22's
XXVIII. Tammy-Norte-Lanp : : yore
XXIX. THouGHTs IN A SENTRY-BOX : 3) BAG
XXX. INTERSEXUAL SELECTION . ; 5 AOI
XXXII. An ALi-pay SITTING ; . 284
XXX. THree Murperers Zs
XXXIII. GuLis anp GIBBon : 5) QT
XXXIV. ALL aBpour SEALS. : 5 51 BOY
XXXV. Tue Devi’s ApvocaTe . 5 BAD

XXXVI. Comparinc Nores ; J 205

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A Seau’s Dormirory . Photogravure Frontispiece
BirD SYMPATHY : . Facing page 42
From THE Rocks oF Raasey IsLe iy 84
On THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE . 5 92
AERIAL Prracy . : : ay 133
A SeAv’s PLayTHING : i * 216
A PeriLous JouRNEY AY 288
‘¢OneE More UNFORTUNATE” : ce 308
‘Nature Rep In TootxH anp CLaw” i 216

PoLireE BUT INSISTENT ; ke 246

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THE BIRD WATCHER
IN THE SHETLANDS

WITH SOME NOTES ON SEALS
—AND DIGRESSIONS

CHAPTER I
MY ISLAND AGAIN!

M* island again !—-and all the birds still there,

looking just as they did when I left it. More,
too, have come. At night, but in a sort of murky
daylight, I walk over the breeding-ground of the
terns, a long flat strip of pebbly beach—or rather
the heather a little way above it, for on the beach
itself they do not appear to have laid. Rising, all at
Once, as is their wont, they make a second smaller
canopy, above me, floating midway beneath the all-
overshadowing one of dreary low-lying cloud. Out
of it, ever and anon, some single bird shoots down,
with a cry so sharp and shrill that it seems to pierce
the ear like a pointed instrument. Occasionally an
oyster-catcher darts in amongst them all, on quickly
quivering wings, its quavering high-pitched note of
' “teep, teep !—teep, teep, teep !” threading, as it were,
the general clamour, whilst like a grey, complaining

shadow, the curlew circles, beyond and solitary,
B

2 THE BIRD WATCHER

shunning even the outer margin of the crowd. How
lonely is this island, and yet how populous! The
terns—a “shrieking sisterhood ’—-make, as I say,
a canopy above me, when I pace or skirt their terrt-
tories ; but what is that to the great perpetual canopy
of gulls that accompanies and shrieks down at me,
almost wherever I go? Were it beneath any roof but
that of heaven, how deafening, how ear-splitting
would be the noise, how utterly unendurable! But
going forth into the immensity of sky and air it
sounds almost softly, harsh as it is, and even its
highest, most distressful notes, sink peacefully at last
into the universal murmur of the sea, making the
treble to the bass of its lullaby.

Most of the cries seem to resolve themselves into
the one note or syllable “ow,” out of which, through
varied tone and inflection, a language has been evolved.
*Ow-0w, ow-ow, ow-0w!” sadly prolonged and most
disconsolately upturned upon the last, saddest syllable
—a despair, a dirge in “ow.” ‘Then a series of shriek-
ing “ows,” disjoined, but each the echo of the last, so
that when the last has sounded, the memory hears but
one. Then again a wail, intoned a little differently,
but as mournful as the other. And now a laugh—
discordant, mirthless, but a laugh, and with even a
chuckle in it—“ ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”’ the syllables
huddling one another like the “‘pezit glou-glou” of
water out of a bottle. All “ow” or variants of *‘ ow,”
till the great black-backed (the bulk are herring-gulls)

swooping upon you, almost like the great skua itself,

IN THE SHETLANDS 3
breaks the spell with a “‘cugea, gugega, gugea!” or,

right over your head, says “er” with a stress and
feeling that amounts almost to solemnity. |
How lonely and yet how populous! Does life,
_ other than human life, around one, in any way diminish
the sense of solitude? I do not think it does myself,
except through human association, and for this, human
surroundings are more or less requisite. Thus wood-
land birds seem homely and companionable in woods
near which one has a home, and gulls upon the roofs
of houses take the place of pigeons or poultry in the
feelings they arouse. So, too, as long as a natural
alacrity of the spirits prevails over that dead, void
feeling which prolonged solitude brings to the most
solitary, the wildest creatures in the wildest and lone-
liest places may seem to cheer us with their presence.
But the feeling is a false one, dependent on that very
condition, and treacherously forsaking us—even to
the extent of making what seemed a relief, an accentua-
tion—when it fails. How often, as I have wandered
over this little, noisy, thickly crowded retreat, has all
the fellowship around me served but to remind me of
my own exclusion from it—-as from that of fairies,
ghosts, elementals—but what all this life could not do,
the cheerful firelight on the bare stone walls of the
solitary shepherd’s hut did at once for me, and with
bacon in the frying-pan I had all the companionship
I wanted. A dog—one’s own or that knew one—or
even a cat, might do more by its own personality
than such inanimate objects by association merely, to

A THE BIRD WATCHER

relieve the sense of solitude; but no quite indifferent
creature could do as much, I believe, or indeed any-
thing.

But with the gulls here—and still more with the
terns—there is more than mere indifference. It is
a disagreeable reflection that all these many birds—
these beings everywhere about one—resent one’s
presence and wish one away, that every one of all the
discordant notes uttered as one walks about under
this screaming cloud of witnesses has a distinct and
very unflattering reference to oneself, upbraids one,
almost calls one a name. To be hated by thousands—
and rightly hated too! It is strange, man’s callousness
in this respect—that he should see his presence
affect bird and beast as that of the most odious tyrant
affects his fellow-men, yet never sleep or eat a meal
the less comfortably for it! So it is indeed—and
the principle holds good as between races and classes
of men—when:one has one’s fellow-tyrants to laugh
and joke and chat with; but here, with but oneself
and one’s own thoughts, the hostility of all these gulls
begins to trouble one. There is no one to share in
the obloquy—it falls upon you alone. You are the
most unpopular person in the island.

I get another odd sensation through being here.
Gradually, as the days go on, it seems more and more
as though gulls made all the world, and this feeling,
which, for its singularity, I value, I can encourage by
seeking out some spot from which the sight of all but
them and inanimate nature is, with extra rigour, shut

IN THE SHETLANDS 5

out. The centre of the island, which is the gulls’
especial sanctuary, presents these conditions. It forms
an extended grassy basin, ringed in with low, swelling
peat-hills, above which—for the intervening space 1s
invisible—rise the tops of hills far higher, belonging
to islands of some size which lie spread about this
little one, hiding it from all the world. Through
dips in these, and in the rim of one’s own brown
basin, one gets the sea—dull, cold grey lakes of it,
engirt by dimmer islands, far away. No human sight
in it all; no sail, for hours, upon the sea—only the
gulls which, in their thousands and their all-possession,
seem to have subdued the world. Men are gone, and
culls now take their place, become ennobled for want
of a superior. Like snowy-toga’d Roman senators,
they stand grouped about, or walk over the grassy
amphitheatre—their natural senate-house—and it is
wonderful with how slight an effort of the imagina-
tion—or indeed with none—the dissonant cries and
shrieks, the clang and the jangle, become as the digni-
fied utterance, eloquent oratory, to which one has sat
and listened, spell-bound, in the gallery of the House
of Commons. “Such tricks has strong imagination.”
“Flow easy,’ indeed, as Shakespeare tells us, “Sis a
bush supposed a bear!”

It is curious how the gulls cling to their breeding-
places long after the breeding-time is over. Summer
—or say July—is now fast waning, yet in the way
they stand amidst the heather, rise as I approach, and
float, shrieking, above me, it is just as it was last time

6 THE BIRD WATCHER

I was here, which was in early June, when things
were hardly more than beginning. Any one not
knowing the time of the year—and it is difficult to
tell in the Shetlands—might expect from the birds’
actions and the general appearance of the whole com-
munity, to find eggs and newly-hatched chicks all
about ; but all are gone, and the nests now hardly to
be distinguished from the surrounding heather. A
few young birds there are, but they are of large size,
though unable as yet—-or scarcely able—to fly. It is
the habit of these, when approached, to crouch and
lie flat along the ground, without making any attempt
to escape, even allowing themselves to be stroked and
taken up in the hand. When set down again, how-
ever, they generally start off running, and often get
to a great distance before they stop. Young terns
and young peewits do just the same thing, and it is
curious that in their manner of thus crouching, before
the power of flight has been fully gained, they exactly
resemble the stone-curlew, in which bird the habit is
permanent, though not, I should say, very frequently
indulged in after maturity has been reached. As no
adult gull or peewit crouches in this way, we must
suppose either that natural selection has infixed a
certain habit in the young bird, suited to its flightless
condition, or that in thus acting it reverts to a trick
of its ancestors, which were presumably, in that case,
flightless, through life. The clinging of the stone-
curlew to the early habit seems to support the latter
supposition, and prima facie it is perhaps more prob-

IN THE SHETLANDS -

able that crouching in a bird should have come before
flying than after it, or, at least, that it should have
been resorted to by certain species, on account of
their flight having become weak. It is conceivable
that some birds may have alternately lost and re-
acquired the power of flight many times in their
genealogical history. But where have the majority
of the young gulls gone? That they have left the
island seems evident, for, were it otherwise, they
would either be all about the heather, or fill the air
more numerously than do the mature birds, when
they cluster above me in my walks. In the air, how-
ever, none are to be seen, though, as by far the
greater number must now be full-fledged, it is there
that they ought to be, with the rest. On the ground
there are, as I say, a few that seem to have been later
hatched, and are not yet matriculated in flight. Their
proportion, however, is not more than one to a hun-
dred of the grown gulls, whereas since every pair
of these rears three young, it should be as three to
two. Gilbert White speaks of that general law in
accordance with which young birds are driven away
by their parents, when they are no longer dependent
upon the latter’s attention, but can feed and look after
themselves ; but with social birds this law of expul-
sion is apt to merge in a larger one, that, namely,
which is expressed in the old adage that “birds of a
feather flock together.” We often see this illustrated
in the case of the sexes, and after watching kittiwakes
at the close of the breeding-season, I can have no

8 THE BIRD WATCHER

doubt that the same principle governs the motions of
young and old birds. Of hostility on the part of the
parents I have seen but little, nor is it necessary ; for
the young, which are now distinguished by a different
coloration, both of plumage and bill, making them
look like another and quite mature species, delight to
associate together, so that both the rocks and the
water become the scene of tolerably large gatherings
of them, at which hardly an old bird is present. As
the parents of these assemblies are now free from the
cares of domesticity, it seems as though the reason
for such a segregation must be of a psychical nature,
since one can hardly suppose that the dissimilarity of
plumage has anything to do with it, seeing that young
and old are as familiar with one another’s appearance
as with their own. It is the same thing, no doubt,
with the gulls on this island, but as the whole in-
terior, or rather the crown of it, is little else than
their nesting-ground, it would be difficult for the
younger generation to foregather, without the con-
straining presence of the elder one. The incon-
veniences of this may be imagined. Not a remark
but would be overheard, not a side-glance but would
be supervised and harshly interpreted, not a giggle
that would pass unreproved. In these irritating cir-
cumstances, apparently—this, at least, is my theory
of it—the young people have migrated en masse, a
striking proof that, with birds no less than with
ourselves, :

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together.

CHAPTER IT
SPOILER AND SPOILED

O the one smooth beach that there is here come

the terns, each year, to breed, and from these,

as well as from the various gulls that nest upon the
island,.the lesser or Arctic skua~-whom some call
Richardson’s, as though it belonged to that gentleman
—1is accustomed to take toll. Sweeping the sea with
the glasses, one detects, here and there upon its sur-
face, a dusky but elegantly shaped bird, that some-
times rises from the water and descends upon it again,
slowly and gracefully, but is never seen to poise and
hawk at fish, like the terns themselves, or, more
rarely, some of the gulls. These are those skuas
who elect to take their chances at sea, and whenever
a tern rises after making his plunge, with a fish in his
bill, they rise also and pursue him. Then may be
witnessed a long and interesting chase, in the course
of which the two birds will sometimes mount up to
a considerable height, rising alternately, one above
the other, as though each were ascending an aerial
ladder. There are no gyrations in these ascents.
They are, or at least they have the appearance of
being, almost perpendicular, so that they differ alto-
gether from those of the heron and hawk, once
familiar in falconry, and of which Scott has given us

9

10 THE BIRD WATCHER

such a splendid description in “The Betrothed,” that
delightful work which an obtuse critic and publisher
(lun vaut bien Pautre very often) almost bullied its
author into discontinuing. The victory is by no
means always to the robber bird, and I believe that if
a tern only persevere long enough it has nothing to
fear, for, as in the case of the black-headed gull and
the peewit, with much threatening, there is never, or,
to be on the safe side, very rarely, an actual assault.
It almost seems as if this logical sequence of what
has gone before had dropped into desuetude, and that
the skua, from having long been accustomed to
succeed by the show of violence only, had become in-
capable of proceeding beyond the show. Why, if
this were not the case, should he always leave a bird
that holds out beyond a certain time? It is not that
he is outstripped in the chase, for the skua’s activity
and powers of flight have always seemed to me to be
sufficient to overtake any bird of his own size, how-
ever swift, with whom he has piratical relations. Of
his own size, or something approaching to it, for
I have seen him altogether baffled by the smaller
turns and evasions of such a comparatively feeble
flyer as the rock-pipit. But this was out of the
ordinary way of his profession. The rock-pipit
carried nothing, and, even if he had done, it would
have been too insignificant for the skua’s attention.
Either amusement or murder—or the amusement of
murder, which is felt by birds as well as men—must
have been the object here, nor does this contravene

IN THE SHETLANDS II

the theory I have just laid down, since such generalised
and legitimate longings are only indirectly related to
the bird’s special instinct.

I do not myself see how these curious relations of
robber and robbed could have arisen, unless there had
been, from the beginning, a marked difference in the
relative powers of flight possessed by each. The
skua, originally, must have caught fish, like the birds
on whose angling it is now dependent, and only an
easy mastery over the latter could have induced it to
abandon the one way of living for the other. This
superiority was probably first impressed upon the
weaker species through bodily suffering, but it would
have been less trouble for the stronger one could it
have succeeded without coming to extremities, and
this, and its constantly doing so, might in time have
made it forget, as it were, the last act of the drama.
But say that the skua has forgotten this, then it 1s
likely that a certain number of the persecuted birds
have by practice discovered that it has, and so
emancipated themselves from the tyranny. Whether
this be the reason or not, I have often noticed the
persistence with which some terns refuse to yield the
fish, though the nearness of the skua, and its sweeping
rushes, seem quite sufficient toinduce them to. Those,
on the other hand, who drop it quickly, often do so
whilst the enemy is still at a distance, in which case
the fish falls upon the water before the skua can catch
it. Upon this, the latter—if not invariably, as the
fishermen assert, yet certainly in the greater number

12 THE BIRD WATCHER

of instances—flies off without any further attempt
to secure it, and I have then seen the tern sweep back,
and, plunging down, retake possession of its booty.
Whether, in such cases, the fish was designedly re-
linguished, in order to be secured again, I cannot say,
but here, at any rate, we see another way in which the
parasite might come to be outwitted by the more
intelligent of its vaches a lait.

These competitions between skua and tern, both of
them birds of such swift and graceful flight, are very
interesting to watch. The skua, in the midst of the
chase, will frequently sweep away, as if it had aban-
doned all hope, and then return in a wide circling
rush, at the end of which there may be a sudden up-
ward shoot, for the tern generally seeks to elude its
pursuer by rising higher into the air. Often—and
again this is just as with the peewit and gull—a pair of
skuas will give chase to the same tern, and then one
may see the slender, shining bird quite overshadowed
by the two evil figures, as, pressing upon either side,
they rise or sink towards it, often almost covering it
up with their broad and dusky pinions. Twin evil
geniuses they look like, seeking to corrupt a soul, or
else dark shadows that this soul itself has summoned
up, and that attend it, hardly now to be shaken off :

Da hab’ ich viel blasse Leichen
Beschworen mit Wortesmacht.

Sie wollen, nun, nicht mehr weichen

Zuruck in die alte Nacht.

For imagination can easily multiply the two into

IN THE SHETLANDS 13

many—cares, shadows, sorrows, they are easily multi-
plied.

A tern that either eludes or is not molested by
a skua at sea, flies home with its fish, to feed its
young. But here it has often to run the gauntlet of
other skuas, who wait and watch for it upon the land,
sitting amidst the short stunted heather, with the
brown of which their plumage, as a rule, harmonises.
There are, therefore, land-robbers and sea-robbers—
pirates, and highwaymen—amongst these aristocratic
birds, and it would be interesting to know whether
the two roles are performed by different individuals,
or indifferently by the same one. To ascertain this
satisfactorily I have found a difficult matter, but
I believe that here as elsewhere—in everything, as
soon as one begins to watch it—a process of differentt-
ation is going on.

Where there are terns to be robbed, the skuas—I
am speaking always of the smaller and, as I have
found it, the more interesting species—seem to prefer
them to any other quarry, so that the gulls, generally,
benefit by their presence; otherwise all are victimised,
except, as I think, the great black-backed gull. The
latter will, himself, attack the skua, who flies before
him, so that, taking this and his size into consideration,
it does not seem very likely that the parts should ever
be reversed between them, nor can | recall any clear
instance in which they were. Of all the birds at-
tacked, the common gull—which, like common sense,
seems to be anything but common—makes, in my

14 THE BIRD WATCHER

experience, the stoutest resistance ; for it will turn to
bay and show fight, both in the air and on the water,
when it has been driven down upon it. Generally it
is able to hold its own, and I look upon it as a
Vigorous young Christian nationality, in course of
establishing its independence against the intolerable
yoke of Turkish oppression.

These skuas love brigandage so much thee amongst
themselves, they play at it; swooping, fleeing, and
pursuing, each feigns, in turn, to be spoiler or spoiled.
So, at least, I understand it, for nothing ever comes of
these mock skirmishings, no real fight or flight, or
anything approaching to one. It is fun, frolic, witha
sense of humour, maybe, as though two pirates were
playfully to hoist the black flag at each other. I love
the humour of it. I love the birds. Above all, I
love that wild cry of theirs that rings out so beauti-
fully ‘“‘to the wild sky,” to the mists and scudding
clouds. By its general grace and beauty, by its
sportings and piracies, its speed of flight and the
rushing sweeps of its attack, this bird must ever live
in the memories of those who have known it: but,
most of all, it will live there by the inspiring music of
its cry.

CHAPTER: Tl
FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT

ee all that I have said concerning the Arctic skua

in my last chapter (I do not say it is much) I
will now add what the Germans call a Bezirag, on the
subject of the multitudinous variety of colouring and
arrangement of markings which the plumage of this
species exhibits.

Hitherto, indeed, I have spoken as if it were always
of a uniformly dusky shade, but that was because I
wanted that shade (and, indeed, it happened so to be)
in the two that were chasing my tern. Otherwise
they would not have suited the part I assigned them
of twin evil geniuses, or have contrasted sufficiently
with the white soul that they were seeking to corrupt.
So, till that was all over, there could be no light or
half-light skuas, but now that it is, and the effect pro-
duced, I permit things to be as they are.

The Arctic skua, then, is supposed by ornithologists
—or, at any rate, that is how they are accustomed to
speak of it—to be a bird of two different outer ap-
pearances, independent of sex, which does not add
another one: dimorphic we are told it is, which
means, or should mean, that it is two- or double-
formed, taking form here to mean colour. Two! A
hundred would be nearer the mark, I think, but I

15

16 THE BIRD WATCHER

have only had the time, or the patience, to note down
fifteen, which I did very carefully, through the glasses,
as the birds stood amidst the short heather on the
ness-side. Here they are; not, perhaps, very pre-
cisely or scientifically defined, but none the less
truthfully so, for all that, and as accurate, I think, as
the fact that no two people see colours quite alike will
allow. But they, at any rate, bring out four facts,
which, together, have, I think, a distinct meaning, viz.
(1) the unmistakable and, for the most part, pro-
nounced difference in these fifteen forms of a two-
formed species ; (2) the likeness of the extremely plain,
permanent form to the plain-coloured great skua; (3)
the same resemblance in the first true plumage of the
young bird ; and (4) the absence in the young bird of
the two lance-like feathers which, in the old ones,
project beyond the rest of the rectrices, but which are
also absent in the great skua. Well, here they are.

(1) The neck, from just below the head, with the
throat, breast, and ventral surface, as far as the legs, a
beautiful creamy white; the rest dark, as in the
ordinary dark form, but I was not careful to note
the precise shade ; the crown of the head—and this,
it seems, is universal—sufficiently dark to appear
black. This bird represents, I think, the extreme of
the light or ornate form, in which dark and light are
almost equally divided.

(2) The light colouring extends, speaking roughly,
over the same parts, but is very much less bright and
pure. It might be described as a dun-cream or cream-

IN THE SHETLANDS 17

dun, the two shades seeming to struggle for supre-
macy. The cream prevails on the neck, the dun on
the other parts; but even the neck is of a much
duller shade than in the bird just described (No. 1).
There are parts of the breast where the original
sombre hue, a little softened, encroaches, cloudily,
upon the lighter surface. These two birds cannot,
certainly, be described as more or less handsome,
merely, in the same colouring. The lighter surface, at
any rate, 1s plainly different in shade, also its amount
and distribution, though in a less degree.

(3) Another bird is much like this last one (No. 2),
but there is, here, a distinct, broad, dunnish space,
dividing the throat and breast parts, making, of course,
a very palpable difference.

(4) Another bird—one of two standing together—
is the common uniformly dark form, except that the
neck and throat just below the head is, for about an
inch, very much lighter, making a considerable approach
to cream without quite attaining it. This light part is
conspicuous in the one bird—this that I have been
describing (No. 4)—but not in the other (No. 5) that
it is standing by.

(5) This other one might pass for the ordinary
dark form, but on examining it through the glasses a
lighter, though less salient, collar is distinctly visible.

(6) In a third bird, not far off these two (Nos. 4
and 5) the whole colouring, from immediately below
the crown of the head—which seems always to be

black or very dark—is of a uniform brown-drab or
C

18 THE BIRD WATCHER

brown-dun colour, there being not the slightest ap-
proach to a lighter collar, or any lightness elsewhere,
except, as in every bird, without exception, on the —
quill feathers of the wings as seen in flight.

(7) In another bird the breast and ventral surface
is of a delicate silvery cream, or creamy silver, some-
thing like that on the same parts of the Great Crested
Grebe. On the sides of the neck, and just below the
chin it is the same, perhaps a little less silvered ; but
between these two spaces, and so between the chin
and breast, a zone of faint brown or dun, somewhat
broken and cloudy, pushes itself forward from the
wings, thus breaking the continuity of the light
surface by the strengthening of a tendency which 1s,
perhaps, just traceable even in the lightest specimens.
Besides this, a similar clouded space is continued
downwards from the back of the head, first in a
diminishing quantity, and then, again, broadening
out, till it joins the upper body-colour. So that here
only a little of the nape is white, hardly more than
what may still be described as the two sides of the
neck. This is a very pretty and delicate combination.

(8) Close beside this last bird (No. 7) is a uni-
formly dark brown one; and ;

(o)i Not: fart, “onthe other sides che ome
which exhibits the same sort of general effect, in
a dark, smoky dun. This latter bird would generally
pass as representing the dark form, and, with fluctua-
tions in either direction, dark or light, it does
represent the common form. Nevertheless, it is

IN THE SHETLANDS 19

both light and varied compared with the extreme or
uniform dark brown form beside it (No. 8), which
appears to me to be the least common one of all, less
so than the extreme light one (No. 1) at the other
end. When I say uniform, however, I do not mean
_ to include the crown of the head or tips of the wings,
which are always darker than the rest of the plumage,
nor yet that lighter shade which is on the primary
quills of every individual, but only seen in flight.
These exceptions must always be understood, and,
moreover, the expression uniform is not to be con-
strued with mathematical accuracy, but only as
conveying the general effect upon the eye.

(10) A bird that from the dark crown of the head
to the dark tips of the wings is, above and below,
a uniform dark, browny dun, yet some washes lighter
than the uniformly brown one (No. 8) that I have
spoken of.

(11) A bird that, from the dark crown to the dark
wing-tips, is, above and below, a uniform light fawny
dun.

(12) A bird that would be the extreme light form
(No. 1) that I have first described, were it not that,
both on the throat and breast, the cream is enroached
upon by cloudy barrings of a soft greyey-brown (or
something between the two) which extend also over
the under surface of the wings. Moreover, a toning
of the darker colour of the general upper surface
encroaches a little upon the cream of the nape.

(13) A bird exhibiting the uniform, dusky-dunnish

20 THE BIRD WATCHER,

colour of the common form (a shade lighter, perhaps,
on the under surface), but with a cream patch on each
side of the neck, just below the head. These patches
are not, perhaps, of the brightest cream, but they are
very conspicuous, whether the bird is seen standing
or flying—in fact, the salient feature.

(14) A bird that would be the extreme light form
(No. 1), but for a distinct collar of soft brown divid-
ing the cream of the neck and throat from that of
the breast.

(15) A bird that is yellowish dun on the neck and
throat, mottled-brown on the breast, and a fine cream ©
on the ventral surface.

Moreover, all these birds differed to a greater or
less extent in those lighter markings of the quill
feathers, both on the upper and under surface, some
being lighter and some darker; following, in this
respect, the general colouring. This feature, however,
is only apparent when the birds fly, and I found it too
laborious to include.

I can say with certainty, I think—judging by the
lance-like projecting feathers of the tail, absent in the
young bird, and by every other indication—that all
the individuals here described by me, were birds of
mature plumage. They were all established in one
locality, and I was able to compare most of them with
each other. I think, therefore, that though there
might, perhaps, be some difference of opinion in
regard to some of my colour terms—as where would
there not be ?—yet that the variation between the

IN THE SHETLANDS 2

different forms is properly brought out. Without
my seeking it, the list includes the two extreme
forms, as I believe them to be, of dark and light; the
former represented by a uniformly dark-brown bird,
the latter by one having the whole under surface of
the body, as well as the sides and nape of the neck,
of a beautiful cream colour, by virtue of which, and
of the salient contrast exhibited between this and the
dusky upper surface, it is extremely handsome, not to
say beautiful—one of the handsomest of all our birds
in my opinion. Both the extreme forms are un-
common, but only, I think, as compared with all the
intermediate shades, not with any one of them.
Also the extreme light, or handsome, form seems to
me to be commoner than the extreme plain one.
Should not a bird like this be described as multi-
morphic rather than as dimorphic? I believe that
there exists as perfect as series between the two
extreme forms as between the least eye-like and the
most perfect eye-feather in the tail of the peacock—
to take the well-known illustration given by Darwin
to enforce his arguments in favour of sexual selection.
The eye, however, insensibly masses the less saliently
distinguished individuals together, so that those in
whose plumage the light colour is more ex évidence
than the dark, go down as the light form, and vice
versa. Moreover, the more prononcé a bird is, in one
or another direction, the more it is remarked; so
that, perhaps, the intermediate shadings are forgotten,
on the same principle as that by which extreme

22 THE BIRD WATCHER

characters, in any direction, are more appreciated than
less extreme ones, by the breeders of fancy birds—
pigeons, poultry, etc. The uniform brown form,
however, as being less striking (though extreme at
one end) is not, I believe, so much noticed as those
various dunnish shades, which have, in my view, been
classed all together, as the dark variety.

In regard to the young birds, I only remember
those nestling ones which had feathers under the fluff,
as brown, without any admixture of cream. But
I had not, at that time, these matters in my mind,
and, moreover, I did not see many. When older,
however, and able to fly, all that I have seen have had
a distinct colouring of their own—for their plumage
has borne a considerable resemblance to that of the
Great Skua (Svercorarius catarriacies), being mottled on
the back with two shades of brown, a darker and
a lighter one. I got the effect of this when I watched
young birds flying or standing, and one day I caught
one whose wing had been injured, and saw that it was
so. This resemblance is increased by such birds
wanting the two lance-like feathers in the tail. As I
say, this mottled brown is the only kind of colouring
which I have seen in these immature but comparatively
advanced birds, and my impression is that, in the still
younger birds, such mottling was either absent or
not so noticeable. At any rate, I have no clear
recollection of it. |

My own explanation of all these facts is that
Stercorarius crepidatus —by my faith, ‘tis a pretty

IN THE SHETLANDS 23

name, though not wholly deserved—having been, orig-
inally, a plain homely-coloured bird, like his relative,
the great skua, is being gradually modified, under the
influence of sexual selection, into a most beautiful one,
as represented by the extreme light or half-cream form.
Natural selection, in the more general sense, seems
here excluded, or, at any rate, extremely doubtful ;
and if it be suggested that the lighter birds have the
more vigorous constitutions, that they are fuller of
verve and energy, to which they owe their cream
colouring, I, for my part, can only say ‘‘ Prodi-
gious!” (or think it), like Dominie Sampson. But
I can assure all those who hold this unmanageable
view—for really there is no dealing with it—that the
one sort came not a whit nearer to knocking my cap
off than did the other. But, leaving shadows, the
main facts here suggest choice in a certain direction.
There is a gradation of colour and pattern, connecting
two forms—one plain, the other lovely. This sug-
gests a passage from one to the other, and if the
plain mature form—I mean the uniform brown one—
most resembles the young bird in colouring—which
to me it seems to do—whilst the young bird resem-
bles, more than any old one, an allied plainer species,
this makes it more than likely that the passage has
_ been from the plain to the lovely, and not from the
lovely to the plain. Supporting and emphasising this,
we have the absence, in the tail of the young bird, of
those lance-like feathers which give so marked a
character to, and add so infinitely to the grace of, the

24 THE BIRD WATCHER

old one. Of what use can this thin projection, an
inch or so beyond the serviceable fan of the tail, be
to the bird? Seeing how well every other bird does
without it, can we suppose it to be of any service?
Its beauty, however—which one misses dreadfully in
the young flying bird—is apparent to any one, and it
goes hand in hand with an ascending scale of beauty
in colour. All this seems to me to point strongly
towards sexual selection as the agency by which these
changes have been, and are being, effected ;* since I
am, personally, a believer in the reality of that power,
having never heard or read anything against it, so
convincing to my mind as what Darwin said for it,
nor seen anything that has appeared to me to be in-
consistent either with his facts or his arguments. :

No doubt if the varied coloration of the Arctic
skua is really to be explained in this way, the lighter-
coloured forms, especially the extreme one, in which
the whole under surface is cream, ought to be on the
‘increase, whilst the dark ones should ultimately die
out or remain, perhaps, as a separate species, the inter-
mediate tintings having disappeared. It is very
difficult to form an idea of the relative number of
individuals constituting any one form, because one
unconsciously compares such form with a great many
others instead of with each separately ; but, whereas |
remember various repetitions of the extreme light or

1 It is a strong enforcement, I think, of this view, that in another variable
species of skua—Stercorarius pomator/inus—the same two feathers give the bird “the
grotesque appearance of having a disk attached to its tail.”

IN THE SHETLANDS 2G

half-cream variety, I have not the same clear recollec-
tion in regard to birds exhibiting other shades and
proportions of cream. It was the opinion, moreover,
of the man engaged to protect the sea-birds during
the breeding season on Unst, that the light birds, by
which he meant the ones more markedly so, were
Increasing in numbers. It would appear, therefore,
that the process one might expect, were sexual selection
the agency here at work, is in operation, and, for the
rest, it is no use being in a hurry. Ai little patience,
the “rolling” of ‘a few more years”—say a million
—will settle the matter either one way or the other.

CHAPTER IV
DUCKINGS AND BOBBINGS
‘HE eider-duck is here, but not its beauty, for

at this fag-end of the summer and breeding
season the males have all departed, and it is the
sober-coloured female, either alone or accompanied by
her little brood of ducklings, that one meets now
along the shores of the island. True there must be
males in their just proportion among the latter, but
at this tender age—the age of fluff and innocence—
the sex of a bird is in abeyance—a world that is not
yet begun. A pretty thing it 1s to see such little
family parties coasting quietly along the shore and
following all its bends and indentations. There is
one such now—mother and three—coming “slowly up
this way,” like the spring, though not so slowly as
the spring, or anything at all spring or summer-like,
comes to these islands. They are feeding, apparently,
upon the brown seaweed that clothes, as with a mantle,
each rock and smooth stone that lies upon the
shallow bottom along a gently shelving beach—making
a continuous fringe which is but just submerged at
low tide. In this the heads of the young ones are
continually buried, but the mother eats more spar-
ingly, and seems all-in-all happy to be thus with her
family. Now as the eider-duck is certainly very
much of an animal feeder—supposed, indeed, to be

26

IN THE SHETLANDS 27

wholly so—one would naturally think that here the
food sought for is not the seaweed itself, but any_live
things that may be clinging to it. This, accordingly,
was my provisional hypothesis, but practical investiga-
tion hardly supported it, for on examining some of
the seaweed, first in one spot and then another, along
the track in which the birds had swum, I could find
nothing whatever upon it—noticeably bare, indeed, it
was. The eyes of an eider-duck are, no doubt,
sharper than my own—or anybody’s. Still I do not
believe that even the most sharp-sighted one could
find anything on this seaweed, at least without search-
ing for it, whereas these ducklings are constantly
dipping and, apparently, as constantly feeding all the
way along. Finding always, they never have the
appearance of looking for what they find. To me they
seem to be browsing in their little ducking way, just
as sheep browse in a field.

The seaweed here is not the long, brown sort, but
another and almost equally common kind, which is
shorter and covered with little lobes, shaped some-
thing like an orange-pip, but of a slightly larger size
——small grapes, perhaps, since they grow in bunches,
is more what they resemble. They are full of a clear,
gelatinous substance that might well be appreciated,
and having, to the boot of all the other indications,
actually seen something that looked very like one of
them in the beak of a duckling, I imagine—and it is
a pleasing imagination—that the latter, at any rate,
derive some part of their sustenance from these their

28 THE BIRD WATCHER

subaqueous vineries. But I have seen seaweed in
the mother’s bill also, and this was not only the
brown sort, but a soft green variety which grows
sparingly with it. When feeding, without any
doubt, upon living prey, eider-ducks are accustomed
to dive, going right to the bottom, and often coming
up with what they find there—a crab or other kind
of shell-fish—to dispose of it on the surface at their
leisure. The chick can dive as easily as the grown
bird, but one may watch these family excursions for
a long time without once seeing either of them do so.
Instead, they now merely duck to get the seaweed,
which almost reaches the surface. The chicks, how-
ever, are often raised by the swell of the sea beyond
the height at which they can nibble it comfortably,
and it is then funny to see the hinder portion of their
little bodies sticking up in the air, with their legs
violently kicking, as they hold on with might and
main to prevent being floated off on the wave.
Sometimes a brisk one bids fair to tilt them right
over, but they always ride it in the most buoyant
manner. The motion with which they do so—or
rather with which it is done for them—is sometimes
very curious, for they look as though they were
swung out at the end of a piece of elastic, and then
drawn smoothly back again, just as they are on the
point of turning a somersault; but more often it
is a plain bob-bobbing. Thus over wave and ripple
they bob lightly along, whilst their mother, floating

deeper and heavier, bobs with more equipoise—a

IN THE SHETLANDS 29

staider bob, that has much of deportment about it.
Each kind has its charm—never was there a prettier
family bobbing. All bob to each other—that, at least,
is what it looks like—and their song, if they had one,
would be certainly this :

If it wasna weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit,
If it wasna weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again.

But, for my part, I have never seen them bob it
otherwise than well. They all of them bob to
perfection.

Scenes like this belong to the pebbled beach and
gently sloping shore. There are others in the deeply
indented, rocky bays that bound the greater part
of the island. Here, in the frowning shadow of
beetling, cavern-worn precipices, one may often see
the little eider-ducklings crawl out to feed upon the
steeply-sloping sides of rocks or mightier ‘‘ stacks”
—as those great detached spurs of the cliff that the
water swirls round are called here—whilst their mother
waits and watches on the sea close at hand. She
does not bob now. These sullen heaving waves sway
her with a larger and more rhythmic motion, calm
but portentous, like the breathings of a sleeping lion
that may at any moment awake. Or she will follow
her ducklings, sliding up on the heave of the wave,
and remaining, most smoothly deposited, as though
the sea, rough and rude as it cannot help being, yet
really loved her, in its way, and were solicitous of her
safety. There she will feed beside them till she tires,

30 THE BIRD WATCHER

and with a deep note that brings them running after
her down the smooth, wet slope of the rock, goes
off on the wave that is waiting, like a ship with so
many little pinnaces following in her wake. The
most she ever sails with now is three, and very often
she has only one to attend her.

CJeUAle IC 1a, Ike WY
A VENGEFUL COMMUNITY

T was terns, I think, who, when some killing
Scotch naturalist or other had wounded one of
their number, came down to it, pitifully, as it lay
on the sea, and bore it away upon their backs and
wings. I can better realise this incident now, after
having walked about a ternery in these northern parts,
and again tried the experiment—which in the south
produced no special consequences—of interfering
with their young. Upon my taking one of them
in my hand, the whole community, amounting,
perhaps, to several hundreds, gathered in one great,
air-filling cloud, a little above my head, and with
violent sweeps and piercing cries, seemed to threaten
an actual attack. When I let the young thing flutter
to the ground, and it moved and struggled upon it,
the excitement was redoubled. It seemed as though
they were animated with hope at seeing it out of
my grasp, and as | took it up and let it go twice
again, each time with the same result, I have little
doubt that this was really the case. It was not only
the two parents—assuming them to have been there
—who attacked me. Many did so; many, too,
seemed to feel, at some time, an extra degree of fury,
whilst not a bird in the whole crowd but was violently
and vengefully moved. These terns, as they clustered
31

32 THE BIRD WATCHER

and darted about, resembled, or at least made me
think of an angry swarm of wasps or hornets ; but
how different is the anger of insects to that of any
other sort of animal! Though so much smaller, they
attack without any hesitation or mistrust as to the
result whatever. A hornet or an ant threatening
merely when its nest was attacked seems an absurdity,
whilst in a creature many times their size it is the
idea of courage only that is presented to us.

Yet it was not all threatening with these terns, for
as the excitement and hubbub increased several of
them attacked me, though only with missile weapons.
To be explicit, they excreted upon me, as they swept
down, in such an irate ‘“‘ Take that!” sort of manner
and with such precision of aim, that the intention was
quite evident. This habit I had heard of, though not
felt, before, for a south coast fisherman told me that
he once had a dog which had developed a strong liking
for tern’s eggs, to gratify which he used to make ege-
hunting and feasting expeditions along a line of beach
where they lived, from which he would return in a
most unseemly plight, owing to the birds having
“dunged”’ him. I did not doubt this account at the
time, and I have now this interesting confirmation of
it, but though I myself walked amongst these southern
terns and often took the young ones up in my hand,
they never vented their displeasure on me in this par-
ticular way, nor were such swoops and threatenings as
they made of so pronounced and violent a character.
They mobbed a hare, however, in a much more deter-

IN THE SHETLANDS 23

mined way, and certainly pecked at it, though, at the
distance, this was all I could say with certainty. It is
interesting if a means of defence resorted to against
animals only, by some colonies of these birds, is by
others employed to repel the intrusion of man also.
For the habit itself, I do not remember reading of it,
either in the case of terns or any other bird or animal,
except one with which Swift has made us familiar—
Swift, that great misanthrope, who, by the sheer force
of his satire, has anticipated to some extent the rea-
soned truth of Darwin. As I say, I can hardly doubt
that these terns acted as they did with malice pre-
pense, yet, as their conduct is, perhaps, susceptible of
another interpretation, | ought to mention that the
bombardment was not continuous, but occasional only
—a dropping fire, so to speak. As far as I could
observe, however, the act was always in combination
with the plunging sweep down, which makes me
certain that, if not the mere mechanical effect of
intense excitement, it was prompted by hostility—to
which latter view I strongly incline.

A little way farther on I found two quite tiny terns
—the other was of a fair size—lying together in the
nest. There was excitement when I took up these
also, but not nearly so great as just before, except,
perhaps, on the part of the two parents. ‘The first
young bird had assumed almost its final appearance,
though not quite able to fly. I concluded, therefore,
that this had something to do with the different degree
of excitement shown by the terns as a whole, but

D

34 THE BIRD WATCHER

when, after some while, I found and took up another
baby, almost as big as the first, there was still less
demonstration than in the case of the two fluffy ones
—again excepting the parents. Perhaps the boiling
point of communal fury that had been aroused by my
first unlawful act was not to be again reached ; but
birds are certainly capricious in their actions, and
there is no judging from one to the next.

But, taking them at their best, why are these nor-
thern terns so much fiercer and more vengeful than
those which breed in the south? Of the disposition
of the latter 1 have had ample time to judge, and,
though there was always anger when I walked over the
great bank crowded with their nests, yet its manifesta-
tions were of a more ordinary kind, nor, as I say, did I
notice any very acute development of it when I lifted
a young one from the ground. Sometimes I think
these Shetlanders look slightly smaller than the English
kind, and always they seem to me to be more waspish
and irritable in their disposition. Are they, therefore,
of a different species—the Arctic, instead of the com-
mon tern, or vice versd? The two, indeed, are so
much alike that only an ornithologist—as ornitholo-
gists tell us—is capable of distinguishing them whilst
the birds are alive and at liberty. However, as the
sole mark of distinction appears to consist in a hardly
appreciable difference in the length of the tarsus, it
1s easier to understand the difficulty than how the
ornithological eye, even, unsupported by a measuring-
tape, manages to surmount it. But when would any

IN THE SHETLANDS es

member of a fraternity admit himself on a level with
mankind in general, in regard to his particular cult ?
The thing is always to ramp on one’s pedestal, though
it be no higher than the houses over the way. Per-
sonally I doubt the validity of a specific distinction so
attenuated as this; but be that as it may, terns, in
their northern and southern homes, seem to differ
somewhat in their natures, even as do the respective
beaches on which they lay, with their surrounding
scenery of sea and sky. How different are these one
from another! MHlere, in these desolate and wind-
swept isles, I, at least, though I have sometimes seen
the sun, have never caught one glimpse of summer—
nothing at all nearer to it than a somewhat fresher and
very much rougher November. But on that other
great bank, in the more genial climate of southern
England, not only is it summer, sometimes—and that
in spring—for hours together, but one may even be,
for a while, in the tropics. How else could there be
the mirage : Yet there it is, or, at any rate, something
like it; for as one lies at length and gazes through
the golden haze that seems to beat in waves upon the
hot, parched shingle, lo! thisis gone, and where it lay,
all glaring, a blue pellucid lake, that seems to partake
equally of the nature of sea and sky, lies now, cool and
delightful.. Into it terns, ever descending, seem to
plunge or softly dip, as though it were the sea itself ;
and as they do so they either disappear altogether, be-
coming lost in azure haze, or are seen through it,
dimly and vaguely, sitting or performing such actions

36 THE BIRD WATCHER

as are proper to their shore life, amidst those strange
new waters, from which others as constantly ascend.
Gulls, too, and sometimes cormorants, may be there,
whilst dove-cot pigeons, with familiar, yet now half
phantasmal strut and bow, mingle occasionally, like
little household Pucks, with the more poetic figures
of this) fairy dream. AY dream, indeed!) it 15.5 bur
more and more, it passes into one of far-off, sunnier
lands—seen once, remembered now. Bluer becomes
the sky—the sea; softer the air. Palm-trees wave,
the long, bright breakers are bursting on a coral shore,
the surf roars in, hissing and sparkling, the gulls are
the surf-riders, England is no more.

CHAPTER VI
METEMPSYCHOSIS

H, if there is really a metempsychosis, has not

the soul of Bardolph gone into an oyster-catcher,
or at least has not his nose, which was his soul—
Shakespeare, at any rate, has made it the most im-
mortal part of him—gone into an oyster-catcher’s
bill? I believe it has, and it burns there, now, just
as brightly, with nothing but the salt sea to drink.
It is that bill, that wonderful bill, which makes the
oyster-catcher a handsome bird. The ruby eye, the
pale pink legs, and the gaily-chequered plumage, all
help ; but they are but adjuncts, and by themselves
would work but small effect. This is well seen when
the bird, having before been running actively about
on the foreshore, becomes, all at once, oppressed
with somnolence, stands still, turns its head over its
shoulder, and thrusts its long, fierce, fiery tube amidst
the plumage of the back. The transition from some-
thing showy to something plain, from brilliancy to
mediocrity, is then quite remarkable ; and equally so
is it the other way when, for some imperative pur-
pose, or in a wakeful moment, the red ray flashes out
again. Every now and again come these swift confla-
grations, and, between them, the bird stands like
a little lighthouse, in the intervals between the flashes
of the revolving light.

37

38 THE BIRD WATCHER

Oyster-catchers—or sea-pies, to give them their old
name, which is a very much better one—seem some-
what sleepy birds, unless it be that in the Shetlands
birds sleep more in the daytime and less at night
than farther south. Sleep, I think, it may be called,
taking the attitude and the complete quiescence into
consideration. Yet the red eye is always open, seem-
ing—for you see but one—to wake singly, keeping
guard over the rest of the slumbering commonwealth
to which it belongs. But there is another eye, and
that, no doubt, is open too. A pair of these quaint
birds will often rest thus, side by side, upon the rocks,
and another, seeing them as he comes flying along the
dividing-line of shore and sea, will wheel inwards, and,
settling beside them, be a lotus-eater too.

CHAPTER VII
BIRD SYMPATHY

| Ca ues is my third here upon the island

—I was actually assaulted by the terns. I saw
a young one, now well advanced, that flew for a little
and then went down on the grass. Walking towards
it, a bird—presumably one of the parents—descended
upon me twice in succession, and, with that angry and
piercing cry that I have spoken or ought to have
spoken of—it sounds very like a shrill “bah !”—
delivered a fierce peck at my head, so that I felt it
each time, quite unpleasantly, through the thin cloth
of my cap. The difference is to be noted in this form
of attack, to that employed by gulls and skuas, the
former in battles inter se only, and the latter as against
man in defence of their eggs or young. Both of
them, when they thus “‘ swoop to their revenge,’ use
the feet only, and the superiority of the tern’s method
is so great that it makes this small bird almost as
redoubtable—if this exaggerated word may be par-
doned—as even the largest of the others. The Great
Skua, especially, were it to use its powerful beak,
would be really formidable, even toaman. In fight-
ing with its fellows, it no doubt does so, and gulls,
under these circumstances, make the greatest use of
theirs. This, however, is when they struggle together
on the ground; but when one fights on the ground

39

40 THE BIRD WATCHER

andeithe) other jin the mairuthe lattenmulscs tsi licer
only, with effects that are irritating rather than to be
feared. Now why is this, and what causes the differ-
ence in this respect as between gull and tern? From
my own observation I think I can explain it. So
long as two contending gulls fight with any equality,
they do so upon the ground, but when one of them
can no longer hold his own there, he rises into the air
and, sweeping backwards and forwards over the other,
who stays where he was, annoys him in this particular
way. The bird, therefore, by whom these tactics are
resorted to has already got the worst of it, and the
last thing he wishes is again to close with a rival who
has defeated him. ‘This, however, is exactly what
would happen were he to use his hooked beak in the
manner proper to it, for it is adapted for seizing and
tearing, and to these uses it has hitherto been put. To
peck or stab with it would be like making a thrust
with a sickle, and though possibly as against a weaker
antagonist it might be made effectual in some other
than the normal way, yet here there is always the fear
of detention, to check any experiment of the sort.
Let the hooked tip but pierce the skin to any extent,
and the swoop would be checked sufficiently to allow
of the flying bird’s being seized. The feet, therefore,
though without efficient claws and quite unadapted to
anything except swimming, are employed by prefer-
ence, and in the manner in which they are used we
see the same principle at work, for instead of making
any attempt at grasping or scratching, the flying gull,

[coe sHETEANDS: at

as it sweeps by, just gives a flick with the back of
them, which the other revenges or parries with a blow
of the wing.

The tern, however, having a straight and sharply
pointed bill, adapted for pecking, and nothing else,
can use it in this manner when flying also, though in
other respects it delivers its attack in exactly the same
manner as the gull does, allowing for the difference in
bulk and aerial grace and mastery, between the two
birds. Here, as it appears to me, we see structure
affecting habit. As a rule, I think, it is rather the
other way, for it is wonderful to how many uses, other
than the primary one for the performance of which it
has been specially adapted, almost any part of an
animal’s anatomy may be put. And indeed, if we
look at it in another way, this truth is as strikingly
illustrated by what we have just been considering as
by almost anything, for the webbed foot of a gull or
any swimming bird is extremely unadapted for fighting,
and yet we here see it thus employed. But it is owing
to the structure of the beak, in my opinion, that this
has come about. That is the bird’s real weapon, which
I am convinced it would always use if it could or if it
dared. Not even in their rough-and-tumbles, where
they close and roll over and over together, have I seen
gulls fight with their feet, upon the ground.

I had not gone far, after this episode with the terns,
when I was pecked at, twice again, by another one,
under similar circumstances. Each time, I believe,

the sharp point of the beak went through the slight

42 THE BIRD WATCHER

stuff of my cap, or I should hardly have felt it so
sharply. It is not only the skuas, then, that attack
you in defence of their young. These terns, though
so much smaller, do so too, and, as appears by the
story, they have more than one weapon in their
armoury. But a more interesting experience was in
store for me, which brought still more forcibly to my
mind that incident with the wounded tern to which
I have before alluded. Walking on, I noticed a bird
which, though a young one, looked almost in its full
plumage, and which kept flying for a little, and then
going down again at some distance in front of me.
Every time it alighted, a cloud of terns hovered
excitedly over it, and first one, and then another of
them kept swooping down, so as just or almost to
touch it, until at last it flew up again, so that I could
never approach it more nearly. It certainly seemed
to me as though the grown community were trying to
get this young one to fly, so as to be out of danger,
and this they always succeeded in doing. I do not
think they really prevented me from catching the
bird, for, no doubt, it would have flown of itself
before very long; but what interest and sympathy
shown! Moreover, had I been pursuing it with a
gun it might have made all the difference. ;
So, too, it must be considered how lethargic these
young terns are before they can fly, and how easily
they then let themselves be caught, though able to
run quickly. When noticed, or approached closely,
they crouch, but though this is probably due to an

AHLVdWAS CuUId

IN THE SHETLANDS 43

inherited instinct of self-preservation, they do not
appear to have much fear of one. Therefore it seems
likely that in their early flying days they might still
be inclined to act in this way, and if so, any en-
couragement to fly which they received from their
elders would be of assistance to them. It is note-
worthy that the younger birds which I caught were
not thus encouraged to run. The public attention,
in this case, seemed concentrated on myself.

Terns vary much in the degree of resistance, or
rather of evasion, which they offer to the attacks of
the skuas— always I am speaking of the smaller of the
two species. I have often seen them get off scot-
free, without losing their fish, and, as before said, this
has always seemed to me to be because of their per-
sistency in holding out, and not at all on account of
their superior speed. I have advanced a theory as to
why the skuas should not actually attack the terns on
these occasions, as they do not seem to me to do, and
if there is any truth in it, we here see a road along
which a certain number of the latter might become
free of the tyranny under which they now suffer. It
is doubtful, however, whether these more obstinate
birds would gain, in this way, a sufficient advantage
over the others to allow of natural selection coming
into play. They could carry, no doubt, more fish to
their young, but here, at least, the skuas seem hardly
in sufficient numbers to make the difference a working
one. With many birds, however, a similarly acquired
change of habit would mean the difference between

ays THE BIRD WATCHER

life and death. I remember once passing unusually
close to a cock pheasant, which remained crouching
all the while, though nineteen out of twenty birds
would, I feel sure, have gone up. It struck me,
then, that as all such pheasants as acted in this way
would have a greater chance of not being shot than
the others that rose more easily, whilst these latter
were constantly being killed off, therefore, in course
of time, the habit of crouching close ought to become
more and more developed, and pheasants, in conse-
quence, more and more difficult to shoot. Some time
afterwards I met with some independent evidence that
this was the case, for a gentleman who shot much in
Norfolk, remarked, without any previous conversa-
tion on the subject, that the pheasants there had
taken to refusing to rise, and that this unsportsman-
like conduct on their part was giving great trouble
and causing general dissatisfaction. That was his
statement. He spoke of it as something that had
lately become more noticeable, but only, as far as his
knowledge went, in Norfolk, which, I believe, is an
extremely murderous county.

Beyond this I have no knowledge on the subject,
but I feel sure that a gradual process of change and
differentiation is every day going on amongst numbers
of our British birds. I believe that I have myself,
here and there, seen some traces of it, and my idea is
that greater pains ought to be taken to collect evidence
in this and similar directions. Along all those lines
where fluctuation has been observed, or where modi-

IN THE SHETLANDS 45

fication might, in course of time, be expected, the
present truth should be most carefully made out, and
having been accurately recorded and published, obser-
vation, after a certain length of time, should again be
focussed on the same points, and this being renewed
every ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred years, the results
could be compared. For instance, our green wood-
pecker feeds now largely upon ants in their nests,
whilst it both fights and copulates upon the ground.
How interesting would it be if we had a continuous
record of observations of this bird’s habits, dating,
say, from William the Conqueror or the days of the
Saxon Heptarchy, and if we found that no mention
was made of these peculiarities, by the field naturalists
of those times, but that they first began to be doubt-
fully recorded in the reign of Henry the Fifth, or
Richard the Third. No doubt a connected chain of
evidence of this kind will gradually grow up, owing
to the accumulation of works of natural history, but
it would, I think, be a great deal more satisfactory if
the object were kept steadily in view, and I am quite
sure that observations made in this spirit would pro-
duce much more interesting matter than that which
is to be found in the ordinary bird or beast book.
For the great idea would then be to compare the
present with the past habits of any creature, in order
to see whether, or in what degree, they have changed,
and this could only be done by continual re-observa-
tion, which would assuredly lead to novelty of some
sort, instead of mere repetition, which is what we

46 THE BIRD WATCHER

have now; and not only so, but the thing that is so
constantly repeated seems often to be founded either
on nothing, or nothing that one can get at. Take, for
instance—but no, that would lead to twenty more
pages at the least, and I want them for something
better.

Clalale ete WaUO
ENCHANTED CAVERNS

LONG the bolder coast-line of this island, where

the cliffs, without being very high, are steep and
frowning, there are some remarkable caves, which I to-
day visited with Mr. Hoseason, in his boat—he having
sailed over from Yell Island. To me, at least, they
seemed remarkable, principally by reason of the various
and vivid colours which the rock perforated by them
begins to display as soon as their entrance is passed.
This rock, as elsewhere in the Shetlands, is sediment-
ary, but broken here and there with veins of quartz,
often of considerable thickness, which seem to have
been shot up in a molten state and to have afterwards
cooled—“ seem,” I say, for I have no proper know-
ledge as to their geological formation. This quartz,
which when exposed to the light of day is white or
whitish, is here of a deep rust-red, and this, dis-
tributed in long zigzag lines or meanderings, is
sufficiently striking, but nothing compared to the
much brighter reds, the lakes, and brilliant greens with
which the interior of the cavern is, as it were,
painted; so that the whole effect, lit up by the candles
which we used as torches, resembled, in a surprising
_ and quite unexpected way, those highly coloured and
very artificial-looking representations of natural
scenery which one sees on the stage—in pantomimes

47

48 THE BIRD WATCHER

more particularly or on some very florid drop-
scene. These colours are due to some low form of
vegetation which is spread like a wash over the face
of the stratified rock, but it seems surprising, since
one is accustomed to associate colour with light, that
in the absence of all sun they should not only exist,
but be so very brilliant. I have never seen anything
like such vivid hues on the surface of rock or cliff
exposed to the light of day, nor, indeed, in any land-
scape, if flowers and the autumn tints of leaves are
excluded. Gaudily painted stage scenery, some en-
chanted or robber’s cavern in a pantomime—Ali
Baba’s, for instance—is really the best comparison
I can think of, nor shall I ever again think these
exaggerated. Nature is really harder to outdo or
burlesque than one may fancy—even on the stage,
where the effort is so constantly, and, one would
swear, successfully made.

In shape these caverns are long and narrow—
throatal, one might call them—and the sea, with the
many weird and uncouth noises that it makes as it
licks, tongue-like, in and out of them, helps to suggest
this resemblance. Though their height is really but
moderate, yet, owing to the narrowness of their walls,
they have the appearance of being lofty, especially
near the entrance, or where, after descending till it
nearly reaches the water, the roof is suddenly carried
up again. For the most part, however, the height
decreases gradually, with the breadth, till at length
the cave ends in a low, dark tunnel, which the sea

IN THE SHETLANDS 49

almost fills, and up which the boat can no longer
proceed. Yet far beyond, where all is opaque dark-
ness, one still hears the muffled wash and sob of the
waves as they ceaselessly eat and eat into the hidden
bowels of the rock. As the whole force and vastness
of the ocean lies beyond this little tip of its tongue,
to where may not such burrows extend? and might
not, by a knowledge of their position and the direc-
tion in which they run, some inland towns be supplied
with the blessing of sea-water !

The water in these caverns is delightfully clear,
revealing in every detail, through its lucid green,
the smooth-rolled pebbles and great white rounded
boulders which strew, or rather make, their floor.
To look down at them is like looking up into the
arched roof of some other cave. One might think
it the reflection of the one overhead, till, glancing up,
the difference is remarked—jagged, bright-hued peaks
and niches instead of smooth, even whiteness. This
effect, as of a roof beneath one, is due, I think, to
the continuation downwards of the sides of the cavern,
for this gives the same vaulted appearance, but re-
versed, that there is overhead, and the mind, as with
the image on the retina of the eye, soon sets it the
right way up.

_ These caves must have been known from time
immemorial to as many as were accustomed to coast
round the island, and it is interesting to think of
who, and what kind of craft may, from age to age,

have visited or sheltered in them. Recently, how-
E

50 THE BIRD WATCHER

ever, they were first explored, if not discovered, by
Mr. Hoseason (who has for years rented the island
and done his best to protect the bird life upon it)
in the spring of the preceding year, and they were at
that time tenanted by numbers both of shags and
rock-pigeons, who sat incubating their eggs on any
suitable ledge or projection of the rock. Of the
latter birds, to-day, there were none, but several of the
former, though so late in the season, were sitting on
eggs which, to judge by their whiteness, must have
been but lately laid, and, no doubt, represented a
second brood, whilst others, whose young were still
with them on the nest, although full-fledged and
almost as big as themselves, plunged, attended by
these, into the water. The hollow sounds of splash
after splash were echoed and re-echoed from sea to
roof, and the air seemed filled with sepulchral croak-
ings. It was easy to follow these birds as they swam
midway between the surface of the water and the
white pebbled floor of the cavern, and I was thus
able to confirm my previous conviction that the feet
alone are used by them in swimming, without any
help from the wings, which are kept all the while
closed. I have many times observed this before, but
never so clearly or for such a length of time.

The young birds, after diving, made for the nearest
rock or ledge on to which they could scramble, and
they were so unwilling again to take the water that
some of them allowed themselves to be caught by
us, though showing every sign of fear—indeed, of

IN THE SHETLANDS 51

extreme terror—which one might naturally suppose
them to feel. This is a puzzling thing to understand
—at least, to me it is. An aquatic bird that swims
and dives all as easily as it breathes, and which has
just before plunged into the water from a considerable
height, stands now upon a rock but little above its
surface, and watches a boat, the object of its dread,
coming nearer and nearer, till at last it stops in front
of it, and the hand is stretched out to seize and take,
without ever escaping, which it might easily do in the
way that it has just before done. What is the ex-
planation? We may suppose, perhaps, that these
young birds have not yet got to look upon the ocean
as a place of long abode, that they enter it only with
the idea of getting quickly out again, and that the
rock is as yet so much more their true home that
they cling to it in preference, and may even have
a feeling of safety in being there. But if this last
were the case, why should they leave it in the first
instance? There would be no difficulty in under-
standing the matter if they refused to take the sea at
all, but having done so once, it seems strange that
they should so fear or dislike to, again. Possibly the
having soon to come out—as being impelled to do so
—and finding themselves no better off, but menaced
as before, may give a feeling of inevitability and
hopelessness of escape, sufficient to take away the
power of effort. But this I do not believe—despair
hardly belongs to animals, and if it did, imminent
peril, with at least a temporary refuge at hand, ought

52 THE BIRD WATCHER

to conquer such a feeling. As the birds which we
thus caught were only in the water for a very little
while, exhaustion could have had nothing to do with
their self-surrender. The paralysis of fear ought,
one would think, to have acted from the first, instead
of supervening after a period of activity, but perhaps
mere bewilderment, by preventing sustained exertion,
may have produced a similar effect. Had it always
been the parent bird that led the way on the occasion
of the first leap from the rock, this powerlessness on
the part of the young to leave it a second time might
be attributed to her absence—but as far as I can
remember there was no fixed rule in this respect.
Both old and young birds generally went off with
great unwillingness, but at other times this was not
nearly so marked.

In their swimming so quickly to the shore again,
after their first plunge, and refusing thereafter to
leave it, these young cormorants brought to my mind
those amphibious lizards of the Galapagos Islands
which Darwin mentions as never entering the sea to
avoid danger, but, on the contrary, always swimming
to land on the slightest alarm, though it might be
there precisely that danger awaited them. This
‘strange anomaly” Darwin explains in the following
manner: “Perhaps this singular piece of apparent
stupidity may be accounted for by the circumstance
that this reptile has no enemy whatever on shore,
whereas at sea it must often fall a prey to the
numerous sharks. Hence, probably, urged by a fixed

IN THE SHETLANDS 53

and hereditary instinct that the shore is its place of
safety, whatever the emergency may be, it there takes
refuge.” The shag, as far as I know, has nothing
particular to fear, either by sea or shore. His only
enemy is man, who is not confined to either, but
is as brutal and ignorant on the one as the other.
But in avoiding danger the instinct of any animal
would probably be to leave the place to which it was
less accustomed, and run to that with which it was
familiar—and this we constantly see. Thus a land-
bird that was beginning to take to the water would
leave it for the land on any alarm, whilst a water-bird
under similar circumstances would make for the
water. But all water-birds were probably land-birds
once, so that we might expect sometimes to see in
their young that old instinct of taking refuge there,
which had become reversed in the parents. We
might also expect to find greater dislike, on their
part, to entering the water ; and certainly the young
shags did enter it very unwillingly from the first.
: So, indeed, for that matter did the old ones, as already
stated, but with them there was the love of being
on their nests, or at least their nesting-ledges—a late
continuance of the breeding habits—to be overcome.
When once they had plunged, however, they did
not, like the young birds, swim at once to the shore
again, but made for the open sea, and it must have
required a strong contrary. instinct on the part of the
latter not to follow them. The lizards on the Gala-
pagos Islands have, no doubt, also taken to the sea

54 THE BIRD WATCHER

gradually, so that their habit of swimming to the
shore when alarmed may, possibly, be due to a long-
enduring ancestral instinct, having nothing to do with
sharks.

We passed, whilst exploring one of these caverns,
just beneath a ledge of rock, where a shag sat brood-
ing over two tiny little things, but just hatched,
perfectly naked, and jet black all over. This poor
bird showed an anxiety which could hardly have been
overpassed in the most devoted of human mothers,
and I almost believe her sufferings were as great—for
surely all extremities are equal. Her hoarse, bellow-
ing cries reverberated through all the place, and
helped, with the gloom, the murky light flung by our
candles, the lurid colouring, and the deep, gurgling
noises of the sea, to make a weird, Tartarean picture,
dificult to excel. But it was not in sound alone that
she vented her displeasure, for she was angry as well
as alarmed. As the boat passed, she rose on the nest,
and, in a frenzy of apprehension, snapped her bill, and
alternately advanced and retreated her long, snake-like
and darkly iridescent green neck. Though my head
was but a foot or two away from her, she kept her
place on the nest, and becoming more and more be-
side herself, behaved, at last, in such a manner as it
is difficult to describe, but which upon the human
plane and amongst the lower classes, is called ‘ taking
on.” Not until I actually took up one of the young
ones, to examine it—for this I could not resist—did
she fling herself into the water, and then it was with
a dramatic suddenness that looked like despair. It

IN THE SHETLANDS 55

was as though she had attempted suicide, but no
cormorant, I suppose, would do so in such a way.
What a strange sight this was! What a gargoyle of
a creature—alive, in these gloomy shades! It seemed
not a bird, but something in The Faerie Queen, one of

The uncouth things of faerie,

—a line, by the way, which only resembles Spenser
by being, probably, unfamiliar to most people. But
our knowledge makes things commonplace. Did the
fairies exist, they would be classified, and, with Latin
names and description of their habits, would be no
more really the fairies than are birds or beasts. Let
one but know nothing, and these caverns are en-
chanted.

It is not often that one has so close a view of a shag
as this. My head was but a foot or so off, and on
a level with her own; my eyes looked into her glass-
green ones. One thing about her struck me with
wonder, and that was the intense brilliancy of the
whole inside of her mouth, which, in a blaze of
gamboge, seemed to imitate, in miniature, the cavern
in which she sat. Most stupidly I did not think to
open the bill of the chick whilst I had it in my hand,
in order to see what its mouth was like. As bearing
on the conjecture which I have formed, this would
have interested me, and such an opportunity is not
likely to come again. I noticed, however, that the
naked skin about the beak, which, in the grown bird,
is thus vividly coloured, was very much lighter, and

56 THE BIRD WATCHER

consequently not nearly so handsome, in the larger
fledged young ones. That here the intensity of the
hue was gained gradually through sexual selection,
I—being a believer in sexual selection—can have no
doubt, and the lesser degree of it in the young bird
would be due to a well-known principle of inheritance,
which has been pointed out or, rather, discovered by
Darwin. If, therefore, the inner colouring has been
acquired in the same manner, it ought also to be first
light and become brighter by degrees.’ I must now
watch for these young cormorants to open their bills,
for it is a habit which they share, more or less, with
their parents, and out of it, as I believe, the adorn-
ment has grown.

I have no doubt that numbers of shags roost in
these caverns during the night, for when I was lost
on Raasey Isle in Skye, I came to a huge vaulted
chamber in the cliffs, into which scores—perhaps
hundreds—both of these birds and the common cor-
morant flew, after the sun had set. When they were
all settled, every ledge, crevice, and pinnacle seemed
tenanted by them, and never shall I forget the gloom,
the grandeur, and the loneliness of this scene. [| ad-
mired it, though naked, except for a torn pair of
trousers which were half wet through. I should like
to see them come flying into their caves here also,
where I am not so forlorn ; but the distance of my
hut from this part of the shore, the lateness of the
hour up to which the light lasts, and my having to

1 This is, in fact, the case.

IN THE SHETLANDS 57

cook my supper, makes this difficult, or, at least,
inconvenient. But if I cannot see them fly in in the
evening, I may see them fly out in the morning, and
that should be “a sight for sair een.”

Whilst rowing to these caves we had seen one black
guillemot, or “tysty,” flying over the sea with a fish
in its bill, and another swimming with a young one
by its side. The latter was of a greyish colour, and
about a third smaller than the parent bird, which in
shape and movements it closely resembled. These
birds, therefore, breed in the Shetlands—a fact well
known before, I believe; but I like to rediscover
things. Another and more interesting thing that we
saw was a seal swimming very fast, and leaping, at
intervals, out of the water. I think I may use this
expression, for if he did not leap quite free of it, he
very nearly did, so as to show his whole body. He
rose in a very bluff, bold way, with great impetus, as
it seemed, and went straight, or nearly straight up,
for a little, before falling forward again. Each time
one seemed to hear the splash and the blow, but this
was only in imagination, the distance being too great.
When I say that this seal was swimming very fast
I am giving my impression merely. All I saw was
the leaps, which were quickly repeated, yet with
a good space between each, and all in one direction.
Between them, therefore, he must have been speeding ~
along at a great pace, so that, each time he plunged
up, it was as from a spring-board of impetus and
energy. I do not remember reading of seals leaping

58 THE BIRD WATCHER

thus out of the water, but Mr. Hoseason had seen
them do so before, though not often. There was
a fine joyous spirit in the thing—“ there is” joy, as
well as ‘sorrow on the sea.”

It is good to see an animal like this in this United
Kingdom of ours—or at least in its seas—for, for
a moment, it makes one think one is out of it, and in
some wilder, more life-teeming part of the world.
It is hard to have to live in a country, glorified as
being “a network of railways,” and to have no taste
for railways. Oh, wretched modern world of ugli-
ness, noise, improvement and extermination, what
a vile place art thou becoming for one who loves
nature, and only cares for man in books !—the best
books bien entendu.

CHAPTER IX
DUCKS AND DIVERS

HE red-throated diver moves softly upon the
gentle play of the ripples, seeming, rather, to

float with the tide than to swim, for there is no
defined swimming action. When it turns and goes
the other way, it meets the opposing motion—the
little dance of the sea—as if it were a ripple itself,
assuming the shape of a bird. This shape is a grace-
ful one, something between that of a grebe and a
guillemot. One might say that a guillemot had been
sent to a finishing-school and had very much profited
by it ; but this is not to imply that the grebe—I am
thinking of Podiceps Cristatus—is slighted in the com-
parison—no bird that swims need think itself so.
Much there is grebe-like in manner and action, and in
shape, except for the crest. By the want of this, the
bird, I think, rather gains than loses to the human
eye, for handsome as the grebe’s crest is, the delicate
curve of head and neck is interrupted by it, and the
effect is rather bizarre than beautiful—it loses some-
thing in purity, that beauty of the undraped statue, to
which Cicero compares the style of Cesar. The neck
of the red-throated diver offers a wonderful example
of delicate yet effective ornament. Down the back of
it, and encroaching a little upon either side, run thin
longitudinal stripes of alternate black and white, so

59

60 THE BIRD WATCHER

cleanly and finely divided that they look as though
they had been traced by a paint-brush in the hand of
a Japanese artist. There is a gorget of rich ruddy
chestnut on the throat, but the rest of it, with the
head and chin, is of a very delicious plum-bloomy
grey, which looks in the sunlight as though it would
be purple if it dared, but were too modest—a lovely
and esthetic combination, soft, yet bright, and the
whole with such a smoothness as no words can
describe. There is another effect wrought by the
sun, if it should happen to be shining, and if the bird
should be swimming so as to give a profile view. It
then looks as though there were a broad, white stripe
—white, but having almost a prismatic brilliancy—
along the contour-line of the nape. This appearance
is most deceptive, and it is only when the bird turns
its neck so as to show the several thin delicate
stripings that one sees it to be illusory. It is pro-
duced, I think, by the light being reflected from the
white stripes alone, so that the black ones between
them are overlooked. Whatever may be the cause,
the effect is most striking and lovely, and if the stripes
themselves are due to sexual selection—which I do
not doubt they are—this far more beautiful appear-
ance, being the effect and crown of them, must
assuredly also be. Here isa neck, then! and I have
seen three, and once even seven, together ! ©

In their way of diving, again, these birds resemble
the grebes. Sometimes they go down with a very
quiet little leap, but often they sink and disappear so

SS eh ete

=~

IN THE SHETLANDS 61

gently and gradually that one is hardly conscious of
what they are about till one sees them no more. As
much as any creature, I think, they “softly and
silently vanish away.” Another habit which they
have is shared by the cormorant and other sea-birds,
and has often puzzled me. It is that of continually
dipping their bills in the water and raising them up
from it again, as though they were drinking, though
that they should drink the salt sea like this, for hours
at a time, seems a strange thing. What is the mean-
ing of this action, which I have just seen a shag
perform forty-six times in succession, at intervals of
a few seconds, as if for a wager? And this was after
having watched it doing the same thing for some time
before. After the forty-sixth sip, as it were, this
bird made a short pause, and then recommenced. Is
this drinking, and, if not, what is it? The head and
part of the bill are, each time, sunk in the water, so
that, as the bird moves on, they plough it like the ram
of a war-ship. Then, in a second or two, the head is
raised, not so high indeed as in an unmistakable thirsty
draught—which I do not remember at any time to
have seen shags indulge in—but with much the action
of drinking. The bill, it is true, is very little opened,
hardly sufficiently so to be noticeable, but very little
would allow of water entering it. But why should
the bird drink like this? It cannot be that the salt
water makes it more and more thirsty, for this, as
with shipwrecked sailors, would produce evil conse-
quences—probably death—but, of course, this is out
of the question.

62 THE BIRD WATCHER

Sometimes it has struck me that some small dis-
seminated matter in the water might serve as food,
and in regard to this, 1 have seen some large white
Muscovy ducks, in the Pittville Gardens at Chelten-
ham, engaged for a long time, apparently, in carefully
sifting the quite clear water of a little rill. Here,
too, there was some action, as of drinking. On the
whole, however, they seemed obviously to be feeding,
but whatever they got must have been extremely
minute. The waters of the sea are, no doubt, full of
tiny floating substances, which a bird might yet be
able to appreciate, and which would perceptibly add to
its nourishment. If this were so, then drinking, as a
special function, might become almost merged in the
constant swallowing of water whilst taking food, and
this may be the case with various sea-birds. Guille-
mots and razor-bills also act in this way, but not,
I think, gulls. Gulls drink the fresh water of lochs
and streams ; whether they, of set purpose, also drink
the sea, 1am not quite sure. If they do, then no
doubt I have seen them ; but I have not set it down,
and have no clear recollection of it.

These Muscovy ducks that I spoke of have another
curious habit of drinking dew in the early morning.
This, at least, is what it looks like. They walk about
for hours over the well-kept lawns, and with their
heads stretched straight out, just above the herbage,
continually just open and shut the mandibles very
quickly and very slightly, nibbling the dew as it were.
They certainly do drink it—one can see it disappear

IN THE SHETLANDS 63

in their mouths; but whether that is all they do, or
their chief object, it is not so easy to be sure of.
Why should they walk about imbibing dew for such
a length of time? and why should dew be so much
preferred by them to ordinary water, of which there
is abundance? ‘These ducks, indeed, or at least the
larger kind of them, which are of great size, are
never to be seen swimming, but they often walk
about by the edge of the lake. They have a most
portentous appearance, and walk with an extraordinary
swing of the body, first to one side and then another.
They are fond of bread, but their ordinary eating and
drinking is something of a mystery to me. I have
seen them apparently browsing some long, coarse
grass, more like rushes, but though occasionally they
did crop a piece, the incessant nibbling was out of all
proportion to what they got, and seemed for the
most part to be simply in the air. They seem indeed
to have a habit of incessantly moving the mandibles
in this way, without any particular object, or, at any
rate, without any clearly discernible result following
upon their doing so.

But as I remember these fine white Muscovy
ducks with their vermilion faces and wild, light eye,
with something a look of insanity in it, I remember,
too, that they are now gone, or, at any rate, that most
of them are, and those the best—the hugest and
most dragon-like. ‘‘ Sometimes we see a cloud that’s
dragonish”’ and sometimes a duck. These wonderful,
waddling, swinging red and white Muscovy ducks

64 THE BIRD WATCHER

were, and to have them running after one, with
uncouth hissings and with their heads held down, yet
scooping up and wagged from side to side at one—
and with that insane eye—made one think all sorts
of odd things. Well, they are gone, nor are they the
only ones that are. When I first, by necessity, came
to live at Cheltenham, the ducks in the Pittville
Gardens were a great consolation to me. There was
quite a fleet of them, a gay little flotilla of all kinds
and colours, and at the smallest hint of bread, on
one side of the lake, they would all come flying over
from the other; and then it was the sport to feed
them. How diverting that was! Being in such
numbers, one took notice of all the little differences
in their dispositions, the different degrees of boldness
or retiringness, of pugnacity, greediness, agpressive-
ness, pertness, impudence, swagger, imperialism, and
so on, all of which one could bring out, in some
amusing way or another, by the varied and nicely-
schemed throwing of the bread. To contrive that
a timid bird should always get it, whilst a boldly
greedy one pursued in vain, that two should contend
for a large piece, to the end that a third might swim
securely away with it, to tempt some to walk on thin
ice till it broke, and others to make little canals
through it, each from a different place, each struggling
to be first, to have one bird feeding from the hand,
whilst a crowd stood round, looking enviously on,
to see greed just drag on fear, or fear just drive back
greed, or the two so nicely balanced that they pro-

IN THE SHETLANDS 65

duced a deadlock, so that the bird stood on a very
knife-edge, trembling between a forward and a back-
ward movement ; and then, too, gradually to come to
connect the look and bearing of each bird with its
disposition, to know them, both outwardly and psy-
chologically, to see them grow into their names that
grew with them, and have the bold orange-bill, the
modest grey, the swaggering white bird, the Duchess,
the Fine Lady, the My Lord Tomnoddy, the Kaiser,
the Swashbuckler, and so on, all about one, so many
characters, so many amusing little burlesques of
humanity—human nature stripped, without its guards,
disguises, softenings and hypocrisies—all this was
the solace and beguilement of many a tedious after-
noon.

But there exists for some reason, in every town in
England, a body of men who can do what they like,
without asking anybody, to the annoyance of every-
body, though everybody pays for them. One day,
after an absence, I came with my bag of bread as
usual, but there were no ducks to be fed; all had
vanished—there was only the uninteresting pond.
Alarmed, I inquired of the man at the entrance, and
found that the Cheltenham Corporation had got rid
of the whole of them on account of their being of
no particular breed or strain, just ordinary tame
ducks and no more. Their appearance, the indis-
criminate diversity of their plumage, their infinite
variety of colour and pattern, had been against them.

It had, indeed, made the water gay, and gladdened
F

66 THE BIRD WATCHER

the eyes of subscribers to the gardens, but it had not
been creditable to the Corporation. True elegance,
it appears, which can only come from true breeding,
had been wanting. These ducks were “a mongrel
lot,” and though they might be pretty to look at and
entertaining to feed, that was not what the Corpora-
tion cared about. What the Corporation did care
about, presumably, was to read in the local papers, or
be told by their friends that now, at last, there were
some ducks on the Cheltenham lakes a little better
than the “mongrel lot” one had so long been accus-
tomed to see there, more worthy of themselves, more
worthy of the town they represented, and so forth.
So the poor “mongrel lot,” the delight of all the
children, and of many a grown-up person to boot—
Charles the Second was grown up, and a clever man
too—were done away with, and a few pairs of select,
blue-blooded strangers (more soothing to gentle
bourgeois feelings) were introduced in their place.
The children who came to feed them said, ‘‘ Where
are the others? Where are all the rest gone to?
There’s no fun in feeding three or four.” Nor is
there, in comparison with feeding a hundred, as one
grown-up person at least can testify. As additions,
these new arrivals would have been welcome enough,
and being of distinct species they would not, probably,
have entered into mésalliances with the others, to
make a correct Corporation blush. Why could they
not have stayed? But this, 1 suppose, was the way of
it. Here were pleasure gardens for which the public

IN THE SHETLANDS 67
paid. This pretty little fleet of ducks, painted all

sorts of colours and not one painted quite like an-
other, made a very considerable part of the pleasure
thus paid for. So the Corporation, vested with
mysterious and almost unlimited powers of annoy-
ance, decided that the proper thing to do was to do
away with them, and they did do away with them,
and the gardens have been the duller for it ever
since. What they could have thought—— _ But
there! they were a Corporation and acted like one.
They had a precedent. They had previously done
away with the peacocks.

CHAPTER X
FROM THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE
I HAVE been watching the black guillemots. Like

the common ones, they often carry a fish they
have caught, for a very long time in the bill, before
swallowing it, or even before giving it to their young.
They will swim with it for half an hour or so, con-
stantly dipping it beneath the water, and apparently
nibbling on it with the bill, whilst they hold it thus
submerged. Then finding themselves near a rock
which is ascendable, they ascend it, and lie couched
there for a while, resting, always with the fish in their
bill, Anon, with refreshed energies, they re-enter
the sea with it, and, if very patient, and prepared
to watch indefinitely, one may at last see that fish
swallowed ; but I hardly think I should be exaggerat-
ing were I to say that hours may pass in this way.
They usually hold the fish by the middle, or just
below the head, and if they want to shift their hold
from one place to the other, they sink down their
bills into the water, as though better able to do so
through its medium. To mandibulate a fish in the air,
quite freely, as does the cormorant, is, perhaps, beyond
their power. Any moment, however, may show me
that it is not. So, too, when I have seen them
swallow the fish, they have done so in the same way.
Instead of raising the head and gulping it down, they

68

IN THE SHETLANDS 69

gulped it up, with the water to help them ; though
I can hardly think that they are compelled to act in
this way.

These little birds—old ocean’s pets, his darlings—
seem to me to play at fighting. Whilst swimming
together in little changing troops—for the numbers
are always increasing or diminishing—they constantly
approach one another in a threatening manner, the
body raised in the water, the head held straight up,
and the mandibles opening and shutting like a slender
pair of scissors—a thoroughly warlike appearance.
Yet it hardly ever ends in anything, nor does the
threatened bird seem really alarmed. Generally, the
threatener, as he comes alongside, subsides into quiet
humdrum, or two birds, after circling round one
another in this way, each almost on its own pivot,
like a pair of whirligig corks, both quiet down. Each,
whilst thus acting, will, at intervals, drop the head
and sink the beak a little in the water—one of their
most usual actions. Sometimes, indeed, the menacing
bird may fly at the one he menaces, who ducks at
the right moment; but what makes me think it
more play than wrath is that, often, instead of flying
right at him, he flies to beside him only, and both
then swim together, looking the best of friends.
Yet too much stress is not to be laid on this either,
and certainly it can be ‘‘miching malicho” on occa-
sions. Often, when one bird is attacked, all the
others will dive and scurry about under the water,
in the most excited manner, seeming to pursue one

70 THE BIRD WATCHER

another, as though it were a game or romp. Some-
times, indeed, there will be a little bit of a scuffle ;
but if there be fighting, still more, as it appears to
me, is there the play or pretence of fighting, which
is tending to pass into a social sport or dance.

The antics of birds are often so very curious, and
the whole subject of their origin and meaning is so
full of interest, that nothing which might by any
possibility throw light upon this ought to be neglected,
or can be too closely observed. I believe that the
feelings of animals, still more than is known to be
the case with savages, pass easily from one channel
into another, and that, therefore, nervous excitement
brought forth by one kind of emotion is apt, in its
turn, to produce another kind, so that if any special
transition of this sort were at all frequent, it might,
through memory and association of ideas, become
habitual. If, however, a mé/ée or scrimmage—to meet _
the case of these guillemots—became, almost as soon ~
as started, a mere hurrying and scurrying about, it
would be difficult to detect the one as the cause of the
other, and this is just the difficulty one might expect,
for in such a sequence the tendency would, no doubt,
be for the first or causal part of the activity to become
more and more abbreviated (what should delay the
passage ?) till, at length, a mere start on the part of
any one bird might set the others off dancing. Finally,
what had become a mere pretence or starting-point
might vanish entirely, or only survive as an indis-
tinguishable part of the other, in which case there

IN THE SHETLANDS 71

would be the dance or sport alone, which would then
seem a very unaccountable thing. In this way I can
imagine the evening dances or antics of the great
plover, which used to impress me so when I lived in
Suffolk, to have originated. One might watch these
performances a great many times without seeing any-
thing to suggest that a feeling of pugnacity entered
into them. Nevertheless, there is, sometimes, a slight
appearance of this, for I have several times seen a bird
pursue and wave its wings over another one. My
theory is that an initial energy or emotion sometimes
flows out into subsidiary channels, and that gradually
this secondary factor may encroach upon and take the
place of the primary one.

At any rate, to come back from the general to the
particular, it is apparent to me that these little ebulli-
tions, or whatever they may be called, of the black
guillemots are of a blended nature, and I should
think it misleading to describe them simply as fights.
Whatever they are, they are very pretty to see. The
actions of all the little dumpling birds are so pert,
brisk, and vivacious—so elegant, too. Yet a bird will
go through it all, play every part in the little affaire,
carrying, all the while, a fish in its bill. It makes no
difference to him; he will even threaten in the way
I have described, whilst thus encumbered. Whether
this makes it more likely that the whole thing is sport,
I hardly know.’ It seems strange to seek one’s enemy

1 On second thoughts it does not, since sparrows will attack martins though
holding grass, etc,, for nest-building, in their beaks—as I have seen.

72 THE BIRD WATCHER

with one’s dinner in one’s hand—the beak is used
more as a hand here than a mouth—yet what is done
with entire ease is as though it were not done at all.
Even so do the guillemots—the common ones, I mean
—but then, they used to fight for their fish. Here
I saw little or nothing of any real attempt on the part
of one bird, to take the fish from another.

In swimming under water the black guillemot uses
its wings only—the rose-red legs trail behind it, a
fading fire asit goes down. ‘The body becomes one
great glaucous-green bubble, which has, still more, a
luminous appearance. The effect may almost be
called beautiful, but it is still more odd and bottle-
imp-like. Most diving sea-birds exhibit this appear-
ance under water, but not all in the same degree.
Whether sexual selection has come into play here I
know not.

A pair of these birds are now feeding their young.
The nest is in a hole in the earth, on a ridge of the
precipitous grass-slope of the cliff, just above where
it breaks into rocks, and drops sheer to the sea. Both
parents feed the chick—for their family is no larger—
but one more often than the other. They bring,
each time, a single fish—a sand-eel, often of a fair size
—and disappear with it into the hole, reappearing
shortly afterwards. Once both are in the hole to-
gether, having entered in succession, each with a fish,
but generally when the two meet at the entrance one
only brings a fish and goes in, and the other, having
nothing, stays outside. When the parent bird has fed

IN THE SHETLANDS 73

its young and come out again, it will often sit for a
little on the steep slope, above or below the hole,
before flying away. It looks solicitously at the hole,
and from time to time utters a little thin note that just
reaches me where 1 am. Once both the birds sat like
this, one above and one below the hole. What I par-
ticularly noticed was that when the bird that had
taken a fish in had come out again, the other, even
though it had nothing, would always go in too, as
though to pay the chick a little visit. It stayed about
the same time—less than a minute that is to say.
How interesting are these little birds to watch, and
how delightful is it to watch them from the summit of
precipices that “‘ beetle o’er their base into the sea,”
where all is wild and tremendous, and in the midst of
utter solitude !

CHAP Re Pel
DARWINIAN EIDER-DUCKS

HAVE seen a fair number of eider-ducks within

the last few days. All the grown ones are females
—not a male to be seen now—and the greater number
of them are unaccompanied by ducklings. Of those
that are, most have but one, and three is the maximum
number that I have seen swimming together with
their mother. Yet two years ago, in early June, the
males here were courting the females, and when I
left, about the middle of the month, but very few
egos, | believe, had been laid. This year, I learn, the
birds have been very late in breeding, there having
been some very “ rough weather,” as it is euphoniously
called, in the spring—that is to say, the spring has
been like a bad winter, and now the summer, though
it has no very close resemblance to any of the four
- seasons as I have seen them elsewhere, yet comes
nearest to a phenomenally bad November. I wonder,
therefore, that so many of these mother eiders are
without their young ones, for they should all have
hatched out a brood of them not so very long ago.
Why, too, should so many be swimming with one
duckling only? Were these single ones of any size,
one could understand the others of the brood having
escaped from tutelage, but, like all I have seen, they
are but little fluffy things. It looks as though their

74

IN THE SHETLANDS 45

fellow nestlings had come to grief in some way, and
if so it is probable that many entire broods have also.
Yet perhaps they have merely drifted away into the
wide, watery world, where they may be able enough
to shift for themselves thus early. To judge by
these, however, they would not have left the mother
duck voluntarily—they are dutiful, dependent little
things.

Where the coast is iron-bound, in delightful little
bays and inlets—those sea-pools lovely to look down
upon—one may watch the eiders feeding on the rocks,
and try; through the glasses, to make out exactly
what they are getting. In this way I] am amusing
myself this morning, having just run round a
projecting point, towards which a family of three
were advancing, and concealed myself behind a
projecting ridge. Over this I can just peep at some
black rocks, up which, whilst their mother waits, the
little ducklings now begin to crawl. So steep is the
slope that sometimes they slip and roll a little way
down it, but they always recover themselves and run
up it again, none the worse. In the intervals between
such little mishaps they seem to be picking minute
shell-fish off the rock ; but what shell-fish are they?
for the small white ones, with which large areas
of the rock are covered, are as hard as stone, and
might defy anything short of a hammer and chisel to
dislodge them. It is not on these assuredly that these
soft little things are feeding, and now I see that
where they are most active the rock is black. There

76 THE BIRD WATCHER

are broad, black bands and streaks upon it, but what
these consist of, or whether they are anything more
than seaweed I cannot quite make out; and here,
where I lie, being above the sea’s influence, there
is nothing similar to instruct me. Rocks now I find
—as I have often before—are inferior to foliage for
concealing oneself, that is, if one wishes to see as
well as to be unseen. One’s head, projecting over
their hard, sharp, uncompromising lines, catches the
eye of a wary bird, and recesses made by their angles
are not often to be found where one wants them.
Twice has the mother duck been slightly suspicious,
and now, to my chagrin—though it really should not
be, for what can be more entertaining ?—she goes to
the length of calling her ducklings off the rock.
This she does by uttering a deep “ quorl ”-—a curious
sound, not a quack, but something like one—on
which they come scurrying down to join her, putting
off to sea with the greatest precipitation, like two little
boats that have only just themselves to launch—no
waiting for people to get into them. I have heard
this note before, and always it has been uttered as a
danger-signal to the chicks. There is another one
that is used on ordinary occasions, and this much
more resembles a true “quack.”

In spite of these various alarms, however, the
young eiders are soon on the rock again, and after a
while the mother walks up it, too, and begins picking
and pulling with her bill over these same black
surfaces. I still cannot quite make out, though now

IN THE SHETLANDS i

I surmise, what it is that gives this black, or rather
indigo, tinting to the rock, and in trying to get
nearer, the mother duck is again alarmed, and with
another deep “‘quorl” or two, runs quickly down the
slant, and slides into the water, close followed by her
two little children. This time she swims away with
them and returns no more, leaving me as disappointed
as though I had thirsted for her blood.

Going down now to the rocks, where they have
just been, I find that the black appearance of which I
have spoken is caused by immense numbers of quite
small mussels which grow thickly wedged together.
It is on these that all three have been feeding, and I
have no doubt that they form one of the staples of
the eider-duck’s food just now. LEarlier in the year
it seemed to be all diving, and when they brought
anything up it did not look like a mussel. All about
the rocks there are certain little collections of broken
mussel-shells—often of a very pretty violet tint—
coagulated more or less firmly together, and these
must evidently have been ejected, as indigestible, by
birds that had swallowed them; but whether by
culls only, or by both gulls and eider-ducks, I cannot
tell. Gulls, I know, disgorge these queer kinds of
pellets as well as others still more peculiar, since they
occur over the interior of the island in numbers too
great for any other bird to have produced them.

The eider-ducks, therefore, feed on the beds of
mussels that the sea exposes at low tide, but they
also, to go by appearances, devour the actual seaweed,

78 THE BIRD WATCHER

irrespective of anything that may be growing upon
it. Hlaving seen them do both, I see no reason why
I should reject the evidence of my eyesight in the
one case more than 1n the other. What interests me
is that 1 have several times during this week seen
the same duck, with her young ones, feeding along
this one flat part of the coast-line, where it forms a
beach, whereas all the others that I have seen have
kept in the neighbourhood of the rocks. Even about
the shores of this small island it seems as though a
process of differentiation were going on, and that
whilst the great majority of the eider-ducks affect a diet
of shell-fish, and, therefore, haunt the broken, rocky
parts where it is to be best obtained, some few prefer
the seaweed growing on the smooth, shallow bottoms,
which they therefore do not leave, or, at least, more
frequently resort to.

A difference of food like this, involving a residence
in different localities, must lead to change in other
habits, to which structure would, in time, respond,
so that, at last, upon Darwinian principles, two differ-
ent birds would be produced. Thus anywhere and
everywhere one may see with one’s own eyes—or
think that one sees, which is just as instructive—the
early unregarded stages of some important evolu-
tionary process.

It is a good thing, I think, thus to exercise one’s
imagination, and by observing this or that more or less
slight deviation from the main stream of an animal’s
habits, to try and picture its remote future descendants.

IN THE SHETLANDS 79

Too little, I think, has been done in this way. The
imaginative element is one without which all things
starve. In natural history it is particularly wanted,
and would have particularly good effects. Most
naturalists think only of what is the rule in any
animal’s habits—exceptions they do not care about
—yet, looked at in a certain way, they are still more
interesting. Moreover, there is a great tendency to
see an animal do just what it is supposed to do, and
this tendency does not conduce to keen and interested
observation. But the future modification of any
species must depend largely upon deviations, on the
part of individuals belonging to it, from its more
ordinary line of conduct, so that any man who should
wish rationally to speculate on this future must be-
come, perforce, a patient noticer of such deviations,
and, therefore, a great observer of the animal in
question.

To support a theory is a great motive towards
the collection of facts, yet a number of small-
minded people are always deprecating what they call
““mere theory” in field natural history, and crying
out for facts only. Theory, however, is a soil in
which facts grow, and there is a greater crop from
a false one than from none at all. The history of
astrology and alchemy are instances of this—if, indeed,
the latter, in its fundamental belief, does not turn out
to have been true after all. When have men been
much interested in facts—apart from mere gaping
wonder or amusement--except in connection with

80 THE BIRD WATCHER

some idea in their mind, which, by giving, or seeming
to give, them significance, as it were irradiated them?
The “ matter-of-fact man,” as that lowest type of one
is called, is interested in comparatively few facts even,
and such fancy and imagination as he does possess
plays around those few.

To return to the eider-ducks, I cannot, of course,
be quite certain that it is always the same family party
that I see along the beach by the fringe of seaweed,
but I have little doubt that it is; for, in the first
place, it always consists of the mother and three
ducklings, and in the next, there is never another
bird or party of birds there at the same time with
them. The double coincidence is, I] think, decisive,
for most of the eiders that have ducklings at all, have
either one only or two, whilst the greater number are
without any. But then, to be sure, I have only been
here a week, nor have I given the matter any very
special attention. It is not quite comstaté, only | like
to think things, and then think as though they were
as I think.

CHAPTER XIl
ON THE GREAT NESS-SIDE
: ‘O-DAY I was to see the cormorants fly out from

their caves, but my hopes were too high, and so
proper for dashing. Having gone to bed at six, I
awoke at ten, dozed till eleven, read Shakespeare till
near twelve, and, soon after, got up. It was night
when I first opened the door and looked out, morning
when I went away. The moon had possessed the
world in fullest sovereignty, had streamed her silver
over land and sea. Now she was deposed, dethroned,
yet there had only intervened the short time necessary
to resuscitate the peat fire and make a cup of tea.
Yet it is not morning either, even yet—or only on the
eastern sea and in the eastern sky ; the one a lake of
lucid light, hung in an all but universal pall of dun
cloud, the other lying beneath it, bathed in it, glowing
with reflected colours, which yet seem deeper and
more lurid than those from which they have their
birth. Two seas of surpassing splendour : and long
lines of heavy purple cloud hang, like ocean islands,
in the one of the sky. The other, the true sea, has
a strangely opaque appearance—it does not look like
water at all. It is this that makes the morning; all else
is dark and shrouded. Standing here, upon a corner-
stone of this island, one looks from night into day.

Just before the sun rises the clouds about become
G SI

82 THE BIRD WATCHER

rosy red, and then take fire; but from the moment
he has risen they begin to fade back into grey again.
All flame himself, he puts all other out. It is a
strange effect. The sun here wants his state. He has
been up but a moment, yet, but for a very tempered
glow just about him, all light and all colour is gone.
Soon it will be all gone, for into the great grey cloudy
continent that broods upon the one clear space and
spreads from it, illimitable as the sky itself, he, ‘‘ the
King of Glory,” is now entering, and there, in all
probability, he will be for the rest of the sombre day.
Here in the Shetlands the sky that waits for the sun 1s
a much more wonderful sight than the actual sunrise,
whereas elsewhere I have seen it throb to his coming
and relume at his torch.

Walking to the caves, I miss my way and long over-
shoot the point. This is a pity, for it has grown
lighter yonder, and I do not wish to disturb the shags,
some of whom, no doubt, roost near the entrance.
However, when I get there, the island is still dark and
shrouded, and sitting, as I have to, with my face to the
western sea, that, too, lies in a grey-blue something
that is neither light nor dark. Through it and over
it the Skerries Lighthouse still throws at regular in-
tervals its revolving beam, showing that it still counts
as night. The shags do not seem to wait for the true
morning—the one over to the east. Many of them
have flown out to sea like shadows, or great, uncouth
bats, yet I hardly think they can have seen me in the
oreyness after I had sat down. Iam not sure whether

IN THE SHETLANDS 83

they came from the cavern itself or only from about
its frowning portals. Wondrous noises the sea is
making now, as, with the heaves of a dead calm, even
—heaves that in their very quietude suggest a terrible
reserve of power—it laps into and out of this awesome
cavern—moans, rumblings, sullen sounds that want
and seem to crave a name.

It is now near three, and the first gull yet—of its
own free will, and not unsettled by me—has flown by.
Just before, some very large fish—for I think it must
be a shark, and not a cetacean—has passed on its
silent way along the silent sea. It came several times
to the surface, and showed each time a very long back,
with one small pointed fin, very much out of propor-
tion to its bulk, rising sharply and straightly from it,
just as a shark’s dorsal fin does. Each time it made
that same sort of roll that a porpoise does, only more
slowly and in a much greater space. This, indeed,
does not suggest a shark—indeed, it can’t be one—
but one of the smaller cetaceans that is yet much
larger than the common porpoise. Every time it
comes up it makes a sort of grunting snort or blow.
On account of this—for it gives itself more leisure to
do it—and that its roll describes a longer curve, I
doubt if it be the porpoise—the one we know so well.
It must be a larger sort, nor should I ever have sup-
posed it to be a shark had I not been assured that
sharks of some size are common round the shores of
these islands. This must be true, | think, for my in-
formants could hardly have been mistaken.

84 THE BIRD WATCHER

At two I could see, though dimly, to write, and now,
at a quarter-past three, I can as plainly as by full day-
light, though it is not that yet. The Skerries light is
still flashing, though it must be now superfluous ; but
even as I write this, it must have flashed its last, for
the proper interval has gone by. There is now a great
bellowing of shags from the cave, which may proceed
either from a single pair or from several. No words
can describe the strangeness of these sounds. They
are more than guttural—stomachic rather. They
harmonise finely with those of the sea, and some-
times, indeed, bear a curious resemblance to some of
its minor, sullen gurgles, deep within the cavern. But
no birds fly out.

Several times, again, now, I have seen this large
small cetacean, and once another one, larger still—in
fact, an unmistakable small whale, which came briskly
up at no great distance away and blew a jet of oily-
looking vapour from its nose. It looked almost black,
and had the right whale shape, though not more, per-
haps, than some dozen or twenty feet long. These
small whales are common off the Shetlands, but sud-
denly to see one is very exciting. It reminds me of
when, from the rocks of Raasey Isle, I saw in the
clear, pale light of the morning, true whales—huge
monsters of the deep—tleaping, head first, out of the
water and falling back into it again with a roar, which,
though several miles off, I heard each time most
distinctly, and attributed, at first, to the breaking
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Skye. Nothing, it seemed to me, but a landslip was
sufficient to account for such a tremendous sound, and
it was with an interest the vividness of which I can
even now feel that its true nature first dawned upon
me. These whales, as, with their huge dimensions, I
could see, though so far away, leapt almost if not
entirely clear of the water, and perpendicularly into the
air. At that time I was quite unaware that they ever
did this, but since then I have both heard and read of
it, and Darwin, somewhere in his journal, speaks of
the cachalot or sperm-whale doing the same thing.

Puffins are beginning now to fly hither and thither
over the sea, and terns are fishing about a low-lying
eastern isle. They are the common kind, but some
clouds above the island are becoming flame-touched,
making them roseate terns. An Arctic skua goes by
too, and a black guillemot flies with a fish to feed its
young. Still from the recesses of the cavern come
those deep, hoarse, bellowing sounds, but they must
be uttered by shags upon their nests, and that do not
mean to come forth. What there was to see I have
seen—those bat-like shadows. There can be no more
to speak of—it is too late—but, were there hundreds,
I can no longer resist the impulse to walk and walk in
the clear and cool-aired morning. The shags that
roost in these caverns cannot, I think, be numerous,
and they leave them, it would seem, whilst night still
broods upon the sea.

True, there was the morning, clear and lovely, in
the east, but, to see that, they would have had to peep

86 THE BIRD WATCHER

round the point. Both in numbers, therefore, and
impressiveness the /4usflug has been a failure, but the
morning, with the almost midnight sun, a splendid
SUCCESS.

This was my last day on the island. In the after-
noon my friends sailed over from Yell, bringing me
my letters. One was from my sentry-box man, telling
me the birds were still on the ledges, but advising me
to come at once, if I wished to find them there—other-
wise they might be flown. I therefore went back the
same evening, and next day, which was Sunday, took
steamer to Uyea Sound, from whence I walked through
a barren desolation to Balta Sound, getting in, about
10 p.m., to tea and cakes at one of the most home-
like, friendly-breathing hostels possible to find either
in the Shetlands or the rest of the United Kingdom—
or, indeed, the world, to judge by probabilities—to
wit, Mrs. Hunter’s establishment, where many a one
has had cause to say, like myself :

‘¢ Sleep (or rather rest) after toil, port after stormie seas,
* ** 2 x ** does greatly please.”

Next day I made what purchases I wanted, not
forgetting a good serviceable porridge-spoon—I had
used a stick before—and, on Tuesday, drove over to
Burra Firth, where I was met by the watcher, and
between us we carried my belongings up the great
hill—or ness, to give it its Shetland name—to the
little black sentry-box that I knew so well. The
“‘nockmantle” fell to my share, and was the lesser

IN THE SHETLANDS 87

burden. It was very heavy, however, and I had
almost as lief be taken to a tea-party as have such
another trudge. But how the skuas greeted me, again,
with their wild cries, as we climbed the higher slopes
where their nurseries are. Having set everything
where it would best go, in the little cabin, I walked
out and made my way to the cliffs.

CHAPTER xo
MOTHER AND CHILD
Be young fulmar petrels here are still all in a

state of fluff—not one true feather to be seen—
just as I left them in the middle of July, on my last
visit, though) now it 1s) the endef if) Bhey sare
larger, however, which, with their softness, whiteness,
and general appearance, as of a great powder-puff,
makes them more marvellous-looking than ever.
Their shape, as they lie on the rock, is that of a round
flat disc—a muffin somewhat inflated, or an air-ball
compressed. Only when they flutter their wings, or
wagele out their legs, have they any more intricate
shape than this, except that the funny little head, with
the black eyes and black hooked beak, projects
permanently out of their roundness. The latter is
frequently held open, with the mandibles widely dis-
tended—sometimes fixed so, at others gently moving.
The neck, on these occasions, is often stretched out
and swayed from side to side, so that we have here,
in embryo, those curious movements which, in the
grown birds, are nuptial ones, and accompany the
note then uttered. Although the chick, as would
be naturally expected, often opens its bill in order to
persuade the parent bird to feed it, yet after some
hours’ watching I came to the conclusion that the
action was too frequent and too habitual to be alto-

88

IN THE SHETLANDS 89

gether explained in this way, and I look upon it as an
inherited tendency. But may not the habit have
originated in the hunger of the chick, and have been
worked in, sexually, at a later age, when the repro-
ductive system had become active ? Strong emotion,
one may suppose, would require an outward manifesta-
tion in the shape of movements of some sort, and it
would be such as were already known, that, by first
coming to hand, would be likely to be first employed.
If we had been accustomed to do one kind of work
for which we had a suitable implement, and it became
suddenly necessary to do some other for which we had
none, it would be natural for us to catch up the one
we had and make a shift with that. If a swim-
bladder can be worked in as a lung, or a pair of legs
as part of a mouth, then why not a hunger-signal as
a love-signal ? Bethisasit may, it is certainly strange
to see little fluffy chicks on the nest going through the
same sort of pantomime as their parents do when in
love. But why dol call them little? Ihave never
seen such big baby things, and their size makes them
look all the weirder. So great, indeed, is the chick’s
fluffiness that though the wings are tiny and the tail
invisible, it looks almost, if not quite, as big as the
graceful and delicately shaped parent bird sitting
beside it.

The lethargy of these young fulmars is very notice-
able. They do occasionally rise a little on their feet
and shuffle about in the place where they sit, so that
in this way they may, in time, turn quite round.

90 THE BIRD WATCHER

But after watching them now, for some two hours,
I should doubt if they ever moved more than an inch
or so beyond an imaginary line drawn close round
them, as they lie. Here natural selection seems
a demonstrable thing, for often, were the chick to
move so much as six inches forward, or a few feet
in any other direction, it must fall and be dashed to
pieces. What but this force—or, rather, process—
can have produced such a want of all inclination to
move!’ It is the same, I suppose, with birds that
nest in trees or bushes. With the nightjar, however,
though the chicks become, after a while, somewhat
active, so that the nest, or rather nursery, is shifted
from day to day, yet for some time they lie very
quiet, though well able to run about. Here the

above explanation does not apply, so that one can
never be sure. ‘ Theories,” says Voltaire “are like
mice. They run through nineteen holes, but are
stopped by the twentieth.” Still, it would generally
be an advantage for young birds to keep still when
left by themselves, even in a field or wood, and how
much more so where a step or two, or one little run,
would be death. Looking at these fat, fluffy, odd-
- looking creatures as they sit motionless from hour to
hour, and then at the grown bird sailing on spread
wings, all grace and beauty,—a being that seems born
of the air—the change from one to the other—from
the fixed to the free phase of life—seems hardly less
or more remarkable than that by which a chrysalis
becomes a butterfly. Not the egg itself differs more

IN THE SHETLANDS gI

from this last stage of its inmate—this free flitting,
gliding thing—than does the round, squat, stolid
chick, which in appearance is nearer to an egg than
to a full-blossomed bird.

The mother fulmar—for I suppose it 1s the mother
—cossets the chick as she sits beside it, leaning
tenderly over it, and nibbling with her bill amidst its
long, soft, white fluff, the chick sitting still, the while,
with its beak held open, but not at all as though it
were thinking of food. Sometimes, by inadvertence,
the mother pricks the chick a little, with her bill,
upon which it turns indignantly towards her, with
distended jaws. She, to cover her maladresse, does
the same, but in a dignified, parental manner, as
though it were she who had cause to be angry. But
it is easy to see that she is really a little ashamed
of herself, and purposes to be more careful another
time. Mother and chick often sleep side by side
on the rock, and then it is noticeable that whilst the
mother has her head turned and partially hidden
amongst the feathers of the back— under her wing,”
as one says—the chick’s is often held straight in the
usual manner. Not always, however : at other times,
it is disposed of in the same way. As far as I can
see, the chick is in the charge of one parent only.
On several occasions a bird, which I suppose to be
the other one, has flown in, and settled on the rock
near, but always, on its coming nearer than some
three feet or so, the one in charge, distending its
jaws, and with threatening gestures, has uttered an

92 THE BIRD WATCHER

angry “ak, ak, ak, ak!” and, on two occasions, has
squirted something—TI presume, oil—at the intruder,
causing it to go farther off. This cry is sometimes
preceded by a more curious and less articulate one
of “rherrrrrr !”—at a venture: I would not answer
for the spelling being exact.

I believe it is the mother who takes charge of the
chick, and becomes so intensely jealous of it that she
will not suffer even her cdro spéso, to whom she was
so much attached, to come within a certain distance
of it. One cannot, indeed, say for certain that it is
the husband who thus sometimes flies up, and seems
to show a wish to approach his wife or child, but it
is not likely that a strange bird would act in this way
—for all are mated—and if both parents fed the
young one, why should either repulse the other?
I feel sure, therefore, that only one does, and this
one is much more likely to be the female.

The chick, in order to be fed, places its bill within
that of the parent bird, and evidently gets something
which she brings up into it. This appears to be
liquid and, I suppose, is oil. Had it been solid,
I must, I think, at this close distance, have seen 1t—
or at least have seen that it was. Where, however,
this supply of 011 comes from, or how it is procured,
I have no very clear idea. Though the actions of
the old bird in thus feeding the chick are something
like those of a pigeon, yet they are much easier and,
so to speak, softer. The liquid food is brought up
without difficulty or straining, as one might, indeed,

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IN THE SHETLANDS 93

expect would be the case, seeing the ease with which
the bird can at any moment squirt it out, when angry,
and the distance to which it is shot. Nor is this the
only power of the kind which these petrels possess,
for they are able to eject their excrement to a quite
astonishing distance—greater even, perhaps, than that
to which the cormorant or shag attains in this art—at
least it seems so at the time. This power is fully
developed in the chick—by whom, indeed, it is the
more needed—and I notice that the rock where each
one lies is clean enough, though all round about it 1s
whitened.

When the mother petrel leaves the chick, she, for
the most part, continually circles round in the neigh-
bourhood, and almost at every circle looks in at it,
sometimes waking it up as it lies asleep, causing it
to give an impatient little snap of the bill towards
her. It is as though she could not sufficiently love,
cherish, and look at it. It is her only child, and a
spoilt one.

I must not forget to note down—now that it is full
before me—that the inside of the chick’s bill, with the
mouth generally, is somewhat more lightly coloured
than in the old bird; it is more pink—which may
represent the natural colour—and less mauvy. This
difference, as in the other cases, is what we might
expect to see, were the colour a sexual adornment ;
but why, if it is not so, should there be any difference
depending on age in such a region?

The great skua still reigns here in its accustomed

94 THE BIRD WATCHER

territory, which, whilst encircled on all sides by that
of the lesser one, is not intermingled with it, even on
the frontiers. Many of the young birds are still
about, but being now feathered and active in propor-
tion to their size, they are more difficult to find than
when I was here before. Though the old birds still
swoop at one, they are not so savage as they were
when the chicks were young and fluffy ; they do not
actually strike, but swerve off, particularly if one
glances up at them as they approach. The Arctic
skua, on the other hand, is still as bold as ever, and
will strike one as repeatedly and come as near to
knocking one’s hat off without doing it (not near at
all, that is to say) as ever it did before ; or the great
one either, I might add, as far as my own personal
experience is concerned. I would not, however, be
unduly sceptical, and this I can say, that I could easily
set my hat on my head so that either bird—or any
bird—might knock it off again.

CHAPTER XIV
“DREAM CHILDREN”

ISITING these islands in the late summer im-

presses me with a fact that it is easy to forget,
viz. that even the most oceanic of sea-birds—the
wandering albatross or stormy petrel, for instance—
pass almost as much of their life upon the land as the
water. The breeding season is no slight matter, last-
ing but a short time. It goes on for months and
months, and sometimes, from its earliest beginnings,
must represent a period not very far short of half the
year. On the ——shire coast, for instance, the terns
appeared in the earlier part of April, and I was told
by the fishermen that they stayed sometimes till well
into September. How the gulls at the end of July
stand congregated on their nesting-grounds, as if the
business of matrimony were rather beginning than
ending, I have already mentioned, and it is the same
thing here in August with the guillemots. Every-
where the ledges are crowded with them, as they
were when I last came in June—indeed, if there is
any difference, the numbers seem even greater. But
though there is the same general appearance, the
glasses soon reveal the fact that, with very few ex-
ceptions, all the young birds are departed. Such as
remain are no larger than the chicks I saw in the
spring, and as most of the parents were then still

95

96 THE BIRD WATCHER

incubating, besides that the young guillemot is
known to leave the ledge whilst quite small, there is
no room for doubt on this point.

No; the young are gone.) Why, then) do wthe
parents stay? They will rear no second brood, so
that it seems as though they love the ledges better
than the little fluffy things that they were feeding
upon them, up to the moment of their departure.
Affection apparently must be bounded by the sea, for
whilst the parents, if we suppose them to have accom-
panied the chicks down, and swum about with them
for a little, must have soon flown back, the chicks,
owing to the undeveloped state of their wings, would
have been unable to make the return journey. It
would seem, therefore, that the first night after the
down-flight must have separated mother and child for
ever; but if this is the case we may well wonder how
the rising generation of guillemots are able to support
themselves. Up to now they have been fed upon the
ledges, but henceforth they must dive and catch fish
for themselves. That they should at once and of
their own initiative acquire the skill to do this, or
learn the art in so very short a time, from the parent
birds, hardly seems possible. We must perforce
suppose—or at least I must—that either the mother,
as is most probable, or both the parents, remain with
the chick for a little, feeding it now on the sea as they
did before on the ledge, until in time—and no doubt
very quickly—it learns to feed itself. But how strange,
if this is so, that the grown birds return to the ledges

IN THE SHETLANDS 97

and stay there day after day—I know not for how
long—without laying a second egg. If they do not
do so, then none of these birds can have bred. But
the ledges are alive with them, and they are of both
sexes. How long does the mother bird remain with
her chick upon the sea, and does she, during such
period, remain with it there at night, thus abandoning
the ledges for a time altogether, though she afterwards
returns to them, or does she fly up each night to the
ledges, whilst the chick roosts upon some rock at the
cliff’s base, to be rejoined by its mother next morning ?
I cannot answer these questions in a satisfactory
manner. It seems as though time must be wanting
for such a little family exodus as I am here suggest-
ing, for on the 16th of July, upon the occasion of my
first visit, I left these same ledges crowded with
guillemots, all, or almost all, of whom were still
feeding their young, and now, on the last day of the
same month, I find all the old birds still upon them,
but nearly all the young are gone. This gives about
a fortnight for the birds I left to have gone off to sea
with the young ones, and returned to the ledges alone,
supposing the exodus to have commenced almost on
the day I went away. Butdid it? As the few chicks
that are still here are just about as big as the others
were at the time I left them last year, I shall be
better able to judge of this when I see how long they
stay.

Meanwhile, there is something to interest me

under my eyes—a curious matter as it seems to
H

98 THE BIRD WATCHER

me, which requires some sort of explanation. As |
have said, but very few of these guillemots have still
a chick to look after, but those that have not, often
seem to be under the hallucination that they are
blessed in this way. But a little while ago, for
instance, a bird—one of such a childless pair—flew
in with a fish, and running with it to its partner,
both of them stood together drooping their wings,
and, at the same time, projecting them forwards, so as
to make that little tent, within which the young one
is so characteristically fed. Always either one or
both of them had the wings thus drooped, as though
to shield and protect something, though ‘“‘nothing was
but what was not.” Standing in this way, they passed
the fish several times to and from each other, and,
alternately bending their heads down till its tail
hung a little above the ground, appeared to wait
for an imaginary chick to take it from them. Now
had the fish, which was a sand-eel, been held by the
head in the tip of the bill, very little stooping would
have been necessary for this purpose, and therefore
I might the more easily have imagined what I here
describe. But instead of this it lay longitudinally
within the beak, so that only about an inch of the

tail projected beyond it, as is very commonly the
case. Therefore, when the birds bent down as a
preliminary to moving the fish forward along the
bill—which, however, they can do as well in one
position as another—it was in a quite unmistakable
manner that they did so, and, looking almost directly

IN THE SHETLANDS 99

down upon them from the edge of the cliff, at a
height of not more than twenty feet or so, I was
enabled to see the whole process. Judging by their
actions, any one would have said that these birds had
a chick, and were feeding it ; and calling up the many
such scenes that I was witness of when last here,
I can think of no point in which they differed from
this present one, except in the presence of the chick.
This curious make-believe, or whatever it may be
called, lasted for some little time, but at last, I think,
one of the birds ate the fish. Between them, at any
rate, it swam out of the ken of my glasses.

And now, what is the meaning of all this? Many
birds, of course, are in the habit of feeding one
another—conjugally or loverly—-or the male is in
the habit of feeding the female, and this seems the
most obvious and natural explanation here. I do
not, however, think that this is a special trait of the
guillemot, and inasmuch as there are but few young
birds now, it is quite a rare thing to see a bird flying
in with a fish in its bill. I believe, myself, that when
a childless one does so, it is with the idea of feeding
the chick—the last one, the one that it remembers
and pictures as still on the ledge-——in its mind ; and it
is the more easy for me to think this, because I feel
sure that this habit of conjugal feeding has grown
out of the feeding of the young, and I can even
imagine that, by one of those mental transitions
which with animals (as with savages) are so quick
and so easy, the bird offering the food, does,

100 THE BIRD WATCHER

occasionally and for a moment, put its partner in
place of the young one.

We must not think only of the forgetfulness of
animals—of their inability to retain past actions or
events clearly in the mind, so as to remember them,
long afterwards, in the way that we do. We should
bear in mind, also, that they are influenced, like
ourselves, by association of ideas, and that savages,
whose psychology should stand nearer to theirs than
our own, often confound the subjective with the
objective—the idea of a thing in their mind, that is
to say, with the thing itself, outside it. It would be
quite natural, in my idea, that any of these guillemots
should, by the mere catching of a fish, be reminded
of the occupation it had for so long previously been
engaged in, and the mental picture, thus raised, of
the chick on the ledge, might well be so vivid as to
overcome the mere negative general impression that
it was no longer there. Under the influence of this
delusion—let us say, then—the bird flies in with its
fish, and, seeing it do so, its partner, by a similar
association of ideas, is affected in just the same way,
seeing also in its mind’s eye—less blurred, perhaps, by
innumerable figures than our own—a lively image of
its child. What follows we have seen—a little play
or pretence, as it looked like, on the part of the two
birds, who thus, as it were, reminded one another of
what both so well remembered. Of such conscious
reminiscence, however, I do not suppose them to
have been capable, but they may both, I think, have

IN THE SHETLANDS IOI

acted in something the same way that a bereaved
mother may be supposed to, when she almost
unconsciously lays out clothes or goes through some
other once habitual process, in behalf of a dead
child—forgetful, for a moment, or half-forgetful,
of the change. All would have been brought about
through association of ideas, one appropriate act
suggesting and leading to others no longer so, but
of whose propriety or otherwise the bird—or any
animal—has probably but one means of judging—the
presence or absence, namely, of the idea of them in
its mind.

Now when, as Miss Kingsley tells us, a negro,
chatting in his hut, turns with a smile or a remark,
to his mother-—deceased, but whom he supposes to
be sitting in the accustomed place there—may not
this also be through association of ideas, producing
a strong visual image of what he has so long been
used to see’ There is hardly anything that so
readily summons up the image, with the remembrance,
of the dead, as the place where they lived or the
objects amongst which they moved. How much,
for instance, does the familiar chair suggest the
presence of some one who used habitually to sit in
it. “TI know,” says Darwin—referring to a visit to
his old home after his father’s death, which had
occurred during his absence on the famous voyage—
“T know if I could have been left alone in that green-
house for five minutes, I should have been able to
see my father in his wheel-chair as vividly as if he

102 THE BIRD WATCHER

had been “there ‘before mes; yj such am veneer
so produced, may be strong—and it varies greatly
—in the civilised man, it is likely to be much
stronger in the savage, who does not distinguish
so clearly between the world without him and what
is in his own mind. To him, therefore, the visual
image of a deceased person, that is summoned up
by the sight of anything that more particularly
appertained to him, during life, might well seem to
be that person himself, and thus, as it appears to me,
a belief might arise of the continual presence amongst
us of the departed, even without anything else to
help it. That there is much else—real, as well as
seeming evidence—I know, or at any rate I am of
that opinion. I do not write as a disbeliever in real
apparitions, in clairvoyance, premonitions, thought-
transference, or a host of other things, for I am one
of those who really go by evidence in such matters
—very few do—and to me no one thing in “this
great world of shows” is in itself more wonderful or
incredible than another—which is my own idea of
what the scientific attitude of mind should be. But
because there may be much that goes to prove what
Myers calls the survival of human (which, to me,
involves animal) personality after physical death, it
does not, therefore, follow that the belief in man’s
immortality has originated through this, and still less
that it could not have arisen without it. Association
of ideas, producing a strong mental image, with the
confusion between thought and objective reality,

1 The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, p. 11.

IN THE SHETLANDS 103

would, I believe, have been sufficient ; for it must be
remembered that man’s ancestry leads up, through
the semi-human, to the primeval savage, and it is
amongst the lowest tribes of existing savages that
the tendency last indicated is most noticeable. In
regard to this, one should read Tylor, as likewise
Clodd, concerning the probable effect that dreams
have had in producing the idea of a soul. From
the dream figure to that of our waking mind’s eye
there is but a step; and as animals dream, we may
suppose that they likewise see mentally.

This seems clear, that wherever the visualising
faculty—to give it a name—produced the image of
anything, it would be mistaken for that thing if
reason did not convince to the contrary. In animals,
reason is weaker than with us, but that the power of
mental vision, within the narrower range of their ex-
perience, is weaker also, I can see no reason to con-
clude. Rather, I think, it is likely to be the other
way, and this should make it an easier matter for
a guillemot than for a negro to see, or seem to see, an
absent relative. But possibly this vivid conjuring up
of the mere outward form of anything may not be
required in order to induce the belief of its being
there. The negro, perhaps, rather feels the presence of
his mother than thinks that he actually sees her; and
might not this effect, also, be produced through a strong
association of ideas? If so, this is all that would have
been necessary to give man that belief in his immortal
destinies which, upon the whole, we find him with.

CPV AVE sexe)
NEW DEVELOPMENTS

T is curious to see the guillemot-ledges so thronged
now, when everything speaks of the departure of
summer, if that, indeed, can be said to depart which
has never, apparently, arrived. As I said before, there
are very few young birds to be seen, and since the
sexes in the guillemot are alike, one might think, at
first, that the mothers had all gone off with their
chicks, leaving only the males on the ledges. This,
however, cannot be the case, since there is much cos-
setting, and sometimes a touch of “the wren,” and
‘small gilded fly,” of King Lear—I trust I express
myself clearly.

I was beginning to think that there were no young
guillemots at all here now, but just at this moment a
bird flies in with a fish in its bill, and, running up to
another one, with it, the chick immediately appears
from under a projecting cranny of the ledge, where it
has been concealed, and receives and eats the fish. It
is the usual thing—the wings of the two parents
drooped, like a tent, in which the little thing stands,
and both of them equally interested. This chick
seems of considerable size-—as guillemot chicks go—is
properly feathered, and the plumage has the colouring
of the grown birds, except that the throat and chin
are white as well as the breast—a continuity of white,

104

IN THE SHETLANDS 105”

therefore, over the whole under surface. Moreover,
from each eye to the base of the bill, on the cor-
responding side, there is a thick black line. The
wings, which I have seen it flap, are small, with the
quills not sufficiently developed for flight—at least,
I should think not. Some time after this I saw a
smaller chick which had been hidden hitherto behind
the two parents. The non-locomotion of both was
as marked a feature as ever—for this struck me very
much the last time I was here. The smaller one
I could never make out again. The other was for
a long time invisible behind its slight escarpment,
and then, though it came out and was active where
it stood, it did not move more than an inch or so
beyond it, or in any direction. |

As this chick evidently could not fly, it, as evidently,
could not have left the ledge, and returned to it.
Imagine, therefore, that the chicks are conveyed down
by the parents, in this state, as it 1s asserted that they
are, and the emptiness of the ledges, of young birds,
is explained; for by the time they could fly they would
have forgotten all about them, even if they were not
far away, as they probably by that time would be.
But if they wait till they can fly before leaving the
ledges, why do they not fly back to them, and then
backwards and forwards, like the young kittiwakes, or
the young shags ? Why do they not accompany their
parents when ¢hey return, since their parents wi//
not stay with them upon the sea? All this is ex-
plained upon the supposition that the parent guillemot

106 THE BIRD WATCHER

flies down with the chick on its back, but it does not
follow that there is no other way of explaining it.
I think there is another ; for though the chick, when
it leaves the ledge, may not be able to fly in any true
sense of the word, yet it might make a shift to flutter
down to the sea, in a line sufficiently diagonal to
avoid the danger of striking upon the face of the
cliff where it projected at a lower elevation, or upon
the rocks at its base. This may not be likely, but at
least it is possible, and, on the other hand, if the
parent guillemots do really carry their chicks down,
why do they not do so shortly after they are hatched,
or, at least, much sooner than they do? Why should
they feed them on the ledges for a fortnight or three
weeks, for I think they are as long as that there,
during all which time they are getting larger and
heavier? Though the young guillemot keeps so quiet
on the ledge, yet it has the full use of its limbs, and
seems quite as forward and capable as are young
chickens and ducklings. It would, no doubt, be at
home in the water at once, if only it were put there.
Does it, then, wait until it can get there itself, or does
the parent bird take it? This question 1 hope to be
able to answer before I leave here.

A bird that has no chick now brings in a fish to
the ledge, and seems not to know what to do with it.
At last he puts it down, and another bird—not, I
think, the partner, but it may be—takes it. It seems
as though the instinct of feeding the young still con-
tinued with this bird, though its young one 1s gone.

IN THE SHETLANDS 107

We may think “out of sight, out of mind” with
animals, but what is probably wanted to make them
remember is a reminder of some sort ; and when they
are reminded, though their memory may be less
capacious than ours, it does not follow that it is like-
wise less vivid within their own limited range. In-
deed, I think there is some reason to conclude the
contrary. The imagination of a great writer is such
that he sees the scenes and persons that exist but in
his own mind, as clearly, possibly, as we do our own
familiar friends and their, or our, all as familiar sur-
roundings. We must suppose so, at any rate, as we
read Scott or Shakespeare ; and indeed their produc-
tions are such that it cannot be far short of this.
I question if any man ever saw his absent friend
more clearly than did Shakespeare his Falstaff, for in-
stance, or Scott his Balfour of Burleigh. But does it,
therefore, follow that either of these great writers
would, when hungry, have summoned up before him
a clearer picture of his approaching dinner, than does
the equally hungry or very much hungrier boor?
This I doubt ; and on the same principle I doubt if the
said boor would see /is dinner more clearly than a
wolf, bear, or tiger would theirs when in quest of it.
The memory of an animal, as compared with that
of a man, may be not so much weaker as less multi-
tudinous. Asa rule we remember those things best
in which we take the greatest interest. This gives to
man a much wider range of memory than any animal
can possess, with a proportionately increased area for

108 THE BIRD WATCHER

association to work over. But there are certain
primitive interests, as we may call them, connected
with food, and the family and sexual relations, which
are very strong in animals, and in regard to which
the memory, when put in action, may be equally
strong. Who shall say that a man, returning to his
home at the end of the day, sees in his mind’s eye a
clearer picture of what awaits him there than does the
bird flying to its nest, or the bee to its hive? Now
could anything, by association, call up this picture,
suddenly, in the bird’s or insect’s mind, they would,
no doubt, act for the moment as though it were real
—as did Darwin’s dog when he called him after five
years absence; and thus I can understand one of these
guillemots flying with a fish to its ledge, to feed its
chick, although its chick were no longer there. It
might be so; I can see no reason against it. In the
actions of these two birds there may lie—for me,
now, there does lie—a great psychological interest.
Suggestive they certainly are. I shall keep this in my
mind and watch the ledges more closely.

The larger of the two young guillemots is now
frequently flapping its wings, and latterly it has been
jumping up, at the same time, though always it keeps
in one place by its mother, and does not run about.
Mother and chick often delectate themselves by nib-
bling the tip of each other’s bills. And now there
comes a surprise. For the first time that I have ever
seen, the chick moves right away from where it was,
leaving its father and mother. It travels along the

IN THE SHETLANDS 109

ledge, often uncomfortably near to the edge of it, and
at last gets round a corner, out of my sight. The
parents, as far as I can make out, have not followed it.
This is quite a new development in my experience of
the chick, if not in the chick’s own experience. It is
not, then, quite immovable, till it flies or is carried
down. Were it to fall now, how aptly would it illus-
trate that law of natural selection which I have called
in to account for its general quiescence. I hope it
won’t though—which is to my credit surely.

I note one more thing before leaving. A bird
picks up and, as it were, plays with some feathers
lying on the ledge, one of which it now brings to its
partner, lays it on the rock, and then both pull it
about. This, too, I noticed when I was last here.
I have mentioned it in my Bird Watching, and account
for it by supposing that we here see a last trace of
the once active nest-building instinct. Perhaps, how-
ever, the act is too trivial to need any special account-

ing for.

CHAPTER XVI
FLIGHT AND FANCY
W/SUrP God my home were here, that I might

make a lifelong and continuous study of the
wild sea-bird life about me! What more should I
want, then? except, indeed, a better climate, which
is not a matter of culture. Of all that civilisation has
to give I value nothing much (that I can get) except
books, and those I might have here, at least in a
moderate profusion, “ the hundred (or so) best” ones
—of my own choice bien entendu; the devil take any
other man’s. ‘Oh, hell! to choose love by another’s
eyes.” But all my own writers—with never an im-
pudent, pert critic amongst them to échauffer ma bile
——awaiting me at home, with these birds—these dear
birds—to look down upon outside, and I think
I might be happy, as things go. But with such
a strange blending of tastes and desires as nature has
put upon me, how can I ever hope to be, to any satis-
factory extent? What I want, really, is the veldt, or
Brazilian forests, or Lapland, or the Spanish Marisma,
with the British Museum library round the corner ;
but, as Cleopatra says of two other things, “they do
not go together.”
“Well, here’s my comfort” for a time—my half-
measure of content. Oh, is there anything in life

more piquant (if you care about it) than to lie on the
IIo

IN THE SHETLANDS Tee

summit of a beetling cliff, and watch the breeding
sea-fowl on the ledges below? In the Shetlands, at
least, it is possible to do this in perfect safety, for the
strata of the rock have often been tilted up to such
an extent that, whilst the precipice formed by their
broken edges is of the most fearful description, their
slope, even on the landward side, is so steep that when
one has climbed it, and flung oneself full length at the
top, one’s head looks down—as mine does now—as
from a slanting wall, against which one’s body leans.
To fall over, one would first have to fall upwards,
and the knowledge of this gives a feeling of security,
without which one could hardly observe or take notes.
The one danger lies in becoming abstracted and for-
getting where one is. Those steep, green banks—for
the rock, except in smooth, unclimbable patches, is
covered with lush grass—have no appearance of an
edge, and I have often shuddered, whilst plodding
mechanically upwards, to find myself but just awak-
ened from a reverie, within a yard or so of their
soft-curled, lap-like crests. But I think my ‘“sub-
liminal,” in such cases, was always pretty well on the
watch, or—to adopt a more prosaic and now quite
obsolete explanation—the reverie was not a very deep
one. :

At any rate, here I am safe, and, looking down again
from my old “coign of vantage” of two years before,
the same wonderful and never forgotten—never-to-
be-forgotten—sight presents itself. Here are the
guillemots, the same individual birds, standing—each

Te THE BIRD WATCHER

in the old place, perhaps, if the truth were known—
in long, gleaming rows and little salient clusters,
equally conspicuous by their compact shape and
vividly contrasted colouring ; whilst both above and
below them, on nests which look like some natural,
tufted growth of the sheer, jagged rock, and which
touch, or almost touch, one another, sit hundreds
and hundreds of kittiwakes, the soft bluey-grey and
downier white of whose plumage, with their more
yielding and accommodating outlines, make them as
a tone and tinting of the rock itself, and delight with
grace, as the others do with boldness. Seen from a
distance all except the white is lost, and then they
have the effect of snow, covering large surfaces of
the hard, perpendicular rock. Nearer, they look
like little nodules or bosses of snow projecting from
a flatter and less pure expanse of it. An innumer-
able cry goes up, a vociferous, shrieking chorus,
the sharp and ear-piercing treble to the deep, som-
brous bass of the waves. The actual note is supposed
to be imitated in the name of the bird, but to my
own ear it much more resembles—to a degree, in-
deed, approaching exactitude—the words “It’s getting
late!” uttered with a great emphasis on the “late,”
and repeated over and over again in a shrill, harsh,
and discordant shriek. The effect—though this is far
from being really the case—is as though the whole of
the birds were shrieking out this remark at the same
time. There is a constant clang and scream, an
eternal harsh music—harmony in discord—through

IN THE SHETLANDS Tel

and above which, dominating it as an organ does
lesser instruments—or like “‘that deep and dreadful
organ-pipe, the thunder”—there rolls, at intervals,
one of the most extraordinary voices, surely, that
ever issued from the throat of a bird: a rolling,
rumbling volume of sound, so rough and deep, yet
so full, grand, and sonorous, that it seems as though
the very cliffs were speaking—ending sometimes in
something like a gruff laugh, or, as some will have
it, a bark.

This marvellous note is the nuptial one of the
guillemot, or, rather, it is that, swelled and multiplied
by the echoes to which it gives rise, and which roll
and mutter along the face of the precipice, and mingle
with the dash of the waves. The effect is most
striking when heard at a little distance, and especially
across the chasm that divides one precipice from
another. Under these circumstances it is less the
actual cry itself than what, by such help, it becomes,
that impresses one. Uttered quite near, by some bird
that stands conspicuous on the ledge one looks down
upon, the sound is less impressive, though still extra-
ordinary enough. It can then be better understood,
and resolves itself into a sort of jode/, long continued
and having a vibratory roll in it. It begins usually
with one or two shorter notes, which have much the
syllabic value of “ harah, hirah ”—first 4 as in “hat,”
with the accent on the last syllable, as in “hurrah.”
Very commonly the outcry ends here, but otherwise

the final “‘rah” is prolonged into the sound I speak
I

114 THE BIRD WATCHER

of, which continues rising and falling—which is why
I call it a jode/—for a longer or shorter time, the
volume of sound being increased, sometimes, to
a wonderful extent. It ends, usually, as it began,
with a few short, rough notes which may be called
a bark, as the other is called a bray, though to neither
is there much resemblance if we make either a dog
or a donkey the basis of comparison. Altogether it
is one of the strangest, weirdest sounds that can be
imagined, and nobody, not accustomed to such sur-
prises, would suppose it could issue from the lungs of
so small an animal as a guillemot.

I made a strange error in regard to the utterer of
this note when I first came to the Shetlands, and the
history of it will show either what a fool I was (and
am, in that case), or else how possible it is for such
mistakes to arise, even with great care and close and
continued observation—I should prefer it to show
the latter. I thought it was impossible that I could
have been mistaken, but now that I know I was I
can see how it happened perfectly. At that time
I knew nothing about the matter, for though
I love natural history I hate the “British Bird”
books, nor am I often in the way of being told any-
thing, since, to be frank, I am as much a hermit as
I am mercifully permitted to be: therefore, when I
first heard the ‘bray’? of the guillemot, as’ it is
called, I was lost in wonder, and as it came but
rarely, and never from any of the birds upon the one
particular ledge that I watched day after day—often

IN THE SHETLANDS 115

for many hours at a time—I never suspected its true
origin. These particular birds never uttered any
sound more extraordinary than a kind of “ik, ik,
ik!” and this though they were constantly fighting,
whilst the performance of the nuptial rite was
frequent amongst them. The note which so as-
tonished me never came from very near ; I heard it,
as I have said before, only occasionally, and it always
seemed to come from a part of the rock where a
few pairs of fulmar petrels were sitting. When I
mentioned it to the watcher, who occupied the little
sentry-box on the ness, during the daytime, when I
was out, leaving it for me to sleep in at night, he said
nothing about guillemots, but expressed his opinion
that the sound was produced by these fulmar petrels.
Now the fulmar petrel, though I have never met with
any reference to it, does utter, when on the breeding-
ledges—or at least, it does in the Shetlands—a note
which is sufficiently marked and striking, a sort of
angry, hoarse, gruff interjection—euttural too—several
times repeated, and sounding sometimes like a laugh.
Often too, these notes are not divided, or else are so
quickly repeated that they sound like one, con-
tinuously uttered for some little space of time. As
I now think, I must sometimes have caught this note
at the beginning or end of the cry of the guillemot,
and put it down as a part of it. Then, when, with
this idea in my mind, I watched the petrels at but
a few yards’ distance, and heard them uttering the
note they do utter, to my heart’s content—swelling

116 THE BIRD WATCHER

out the throat and rolling the head at one another,
the while, in the way I have described—I was so
foolish as to think that this was the cry that I thought
so wonderful, but not at its best, and that the real one,
when I heard it again in the distance—for, as I say,
it never sounded very near-—was the same one af its
best. With this false idea in my head I went home,
and when somebody, assuming the character of a
“Fulmar Petrel” himself—assured me that I had
mistaken the guillemot’s note for his own, I was as
convinced that he did not know what he was talking
about, and that I did, as I am now to the contrary.
On one point, however, I am clear, and cannot pos-
sibly be mistaken, since I have verified it only in these
last few days, having come, in fact, partly to do so—
at least that made another motive for my journey.
The fulmar petrel, if it does not bray like a guille-
mot, has at least a nuptial note—and that a sufficiently
striking one—of its own, which is uttered by both
sexes as they lie on the rock, but never, in my ex-
perience, whilst flying. Moreover, just as the vocal
powers of the guillemot are now marvellously in-
creased—or rather multiplied—compared with what
they were some weeks earlier in the year, on my last
visit, so, if 1 may trust my own memory—which,
however, I never do trust—those of the fulmar
petrel have suffered a corresponding diminution. I
attribute both these facts to one and the same cause.
At the earlier date the guillemots were in the very
midst of their domestic duties, so that those feelings

IN THE SHETLANDS Tele

proper to the courting period were in abeyance.
Now, however, they are free, and, under the influence
of returning emotion, have become noisy again, as
no doubt, at the very beginning, they were noisier still.
Though their physical energy may not be sufficient
to enable them to rear another brood, that, I am sure
—and there is plenty of evidence of it—is what they
feel like\—= there is dalliance and a ““smart set”
morality. But with the petrels, at the same time,
things had not gone so far—some, if I remember
rightly, had not even yet laid their egg—and so their
nuptial vociferations were more energetic than they
are now—or, at any rate, I think they were. Here,
then, was a mistake, and I have shown clearly how it
came about. Some perhaps—especially those who
get all their information from books, and feel as if
they had found it out for themselves—may admit no
excuse for it, my explanation notwithstanding ; but,
for my part, I think it is easy to make mistakes.
Had but one of the guillemots on my own ledge been
so good as to bray for me, all would have been well,
but never a word did any of them say except “ik,
Iss hg Yate

There was another point on which “ Fulmar
Petrel” took exception to what I said about him—or
rather to what I seemed to say. In view of his oil-
squirting and other unangelic propensities, he thought
the descriptive phrase “half angel and half bird,”
which formed the title of my article, was not quite
suitable to him. Well, I may tell him now that I

118 THE BIRD WATCHER

never thought so either—titles, as most authors now-
adays have good cause to know, are not always one’s
own. I never compare birds to angels, for fear of
thinking slightingly of the latter, and though I admit
that, in the hands of a skilled artist, a pelican’s wings
on a pair of human shoulders may make a pretty
enough combination, and that the whole human body
need not /ook so heavy and unmanageable as it, no
doubt, would be in reality, still, as far as flight is
concerned, I confess I think it takes a bird to beat
a bird. Angels are out of it in my opinion, or, if
they are not, at least my powers of imagination in
regard to them are. I shall always think of “ Fulmar
Petrel” as flying much better than the best of them,
though, as his habit of squirting oil does not in the
least degree lessen his aerial grace and beauty, as far
as that alone is concerned I see no reason why he
should not be half an angel, at any rate, if not a
whole one.

Yes, here are powers indeed ! What buoyant ease !
What marvellous, least-action grace! Surely no
bird has ever flown before. This—this only—is
flight ; for a moment, at any rate, one forgets even
the nightjar. And yet all these storm-riding, blast-
defying powers belong to one of the most placid-
looking, delicately dove-like beautiful beings of all
air’s kingdom. How soft is its colouring! How
gentle its look! Was there ever a more “ delicate
Ariel” than this?

One cannot, indeed, watch for long the flight of

IN THE SHETLANDS 119

the fulmar petrel without becoming dissatisfied, or at
least critical, in regard to that of other sea-birds. The
larger gulls grow hopelessly coarse and heavy; the
kittiwake is not what it was, something is gone from
the bold corsair-like sweeps of the Arctic skua, and
even in the seeming-laboured grace of the tern the
eye begins to dwell more on the labour and less
on the grace. All these birds are bodies: the fulmar
petrel more suggests a soul. Something of this it
owes to its colouring, which, though approaching
to blue above, and of the purest-looking white below,
yet has in it that exquisitely smoked or shadowed
quality which allows of no glint or gleam, avoids all
saliency, and almost seems alien from substance itself.
It blends with the air, of which it seems to be a con-
densation rather than something introduced into it.
Yet most lies in the flight. In this there is conveyed
to one a sense, not so much of power over as of actual
partnership in the element in which the bird floats, as
though it had been born there, as though it might
sleep and awake there, as though it had never been,
nor ever could be, anywhere else. It is, I suppose,
the small apparent mechanism of the flight that gives
this impression, the absence, or the ease, of effort.
Sliding, as it were, from the face of the precipice,
and often from the most towering heights of it, the
thin cleaver-like wings are at once, or after a few
quick, flickering vibrations, spread to their full extent,
and on them the bird floats, sweeps, circles, now sink-
ing towards the sea, now cresting the summit of the

120 THE BIRD WATCHER

cliff,' but keeping, for the most part, within the middle
space between the two. Ever and anon it sails
smoothly in to its own rocky ledge, pauses above it,
as though to think ““My home!” then, with another
quick shimmer or flicker of the thin shadow-wings,
sweeps smoothly out again, to enter once more on
those wonderful down-sliding, up-gliding circles that
have more of magic in them, and are more drawn
to charm, than had ever a necromancer’s.

This light flickering of the wings, as I have called
it, for they cannot be said to flap or beat—even quiver
is too gross a term for so delicate a motion—is a
characteristic part of the fulmar petrel’s flight. They
move for a moment—for a few seconds more or less
—in the way in which a shadow flickers on the wall,
and then the bird glides and circles, holding them
outspread and at rest, opposing their thin, flat surface,
now to this point, now to that, by a turn of the head
or body, but giving them no’ independent motion.
Then another flicker, and again the gliding and circ-
ling. When spread thus, flat to the air, the wings
have a very thin, paper-knifey appearance. The simile
does not seem worthy either of them or of the bird,
but as it is continually brought to my mind, I must
employ it, albeit apologetically. It is the shape of
them that suggests it. Their ends are smooth and
rounded, and they are held so straight that they seem

1 The idea that the fulmar petrel never flies over the land is a delusion. I have
often seen it do so, though that is not its habit. It goes but a trifling way, however,
cutting off a cape or corner, and returns almost immediately.

IN THE SHETLANDS 17h

to be 1n one piece, without a joint ; though, just when
the wind catches them freshly, and drives the bird
swiftly along, they are turned slightly upwards to-
ward the tips, through the momentary yielding of
the quills. Strange though it may seem, this straight-
ness—almost stiffness—of the wing-contour adds to—
nay, makes—the grace of the fulmar petrel’s flight, and
the pronounced bend at the joint, which, in the gull
and kittiwake, causes the forepart of the wing to slope
backwards in a marked degree, looks almost clumsy
by comparison. The reason, I think, is that the
petrel’s straight, thin, flat-pressed wings look so
splendidly set to the wind, suggesting a graceful
ship—lateen-rigged—in fullest sail, whilst the others
seem timidly furled and reefed, by the side of them.
Sometimes, indeed, the wings do bend just a little—
for, after all, they have a joint—but the straight-set
attitude is more germane to them, and soon they
assume it again, shooting forward so briskly, yet
softly, that one seems to hear a soft little musical
click.

And thus this dream and joy of glorious motion,
this elemental spirit of a bird, floats and flickers
along, cradled in air, looking like a shadow upon it,
sweeping and gliding, rising and falling, in circles of
consummate ease. No, this is not dominion, but union
and sweet accord. ‘There is no in-spite-of, no proud
compelling, here. Lighter than the air that it rides
on, the bird seems married to it, clasps it as a bride.

CHAPTER XVII
MOUTHS WITH MEANINGS

oe young kittiwake differs in appearance from

the parent birds in a quite uncommon manner,
for, being prettily and saliently marked, it looks like
a mature gull of another species, whereas the young
of other gulls, being plain brown things, suggest their
juvenility on the analogy of pheasants or birds of
paradise. The general colour is mauvy grey, but
black, falling here and there upon it, seems striving to
blot it out. Half of the wings are thus darkened,
and a broad half-moon of sooty black nearly encircles
the neck, looking like black velvet on the back of
it, where it is by much the broadest. There is a
clouded black mark, too, on either side of the head,
with some nuances of black between, black tips the
tail, and the beak is all black. The ‘out ensemble of all
this is very pretty, and the young kittiwake 1s a pretty
bird. Mauve and black velvet is the dress it comes
out in, and it looks like a soft little dove. Many
might admire it beyond the grown bird, but, per-
sonally, I prefer the latter.

One of these well-grown young kittiwakes has just
bent ted abyauthe HOO, or father—but call it the
mother, it always sounds better. Being importuned
by sundry little peckings at her beak, she opened it,
and the young one, thrusting in its own, helped him-

122

IN THE SHETLANDS 123

self as though her throat werea platter. It was much
the same as with the fulmar petrels. Numbers of
the young have left their nests, and keep all together,
standing on the rocks or floating on the sea. Others
remain, and I notice that these keep flapping their
wings. This must strengthen them, and have the
effect of preparing Dedalus for his first flight—for
it seems probable that these particular ones have not
made it. But they have, though, and bang goes a
provisional hypothesis! Every moment, to laugh at
me, one or other of them is flying out from the
ledges, whilst others are returning to them.

When one of these young kittiwakes opens its bill,
it is at once apparent that the inside of its mouth is
much less brilliantly coloured than it is in the parent
bird, being of a pale pinkish, merely, with, perhaps, a
tinge of light yellow. As for the grown bird’s mouth,
one can hardly exaggerate the lurid brightness of it.
The whole buccal cavity, including, as I think is usual,
the tongue, is of a fine rich red, or orange-red colour,
carrying on that of the naked skin adjoining the
mandibles outside, with which, indeed, it is continuous.
It is just the same in the case of the old and young
shag. The mouth of the former presents a uniform
surface of splendid gamboge, whilst that of the latter
is almost the natural pink, only just beginning to
pass into yellow. In the young guillemot, also, the
interior of the mouth is pinkish merely, whilst in the
grown bird it is of a pleasing lemon or gamboge.
With the fulmar petrel again, we have much the same

124 THE BIRD WATCHER

thing, though here—and this is significant—the differ-
ence, as well as the actual colour, is less striking.
These varying degrees of brilliancy of colouring in
this particular region, as between the mature and im-
mature form, must surely have some meaning, and as
it goes hand-in-hand with a similar, if not, as I believe,
an identical difference in the hue of the naked facial
integument, as well as with the pattern and shade of
the plumage, I feel persuaded that all three are governed
by the same general law.

As explained by Darwin—and nothing better, that
I can see, than opposition has ever been opposed to
his views—the beauty of certain birds has been ac-
quired through the principle of sexual selection, and
the lesser degree of it, which we notice in the young,
represents the earlier and less-finished beauty of the
adult in times gone by. Of all the elements which go
to make up the beauty thus acquired, colour, on the
whole, plays the most conspicuous part, and nothing
can be more brilliant and striking than some of the
colours that I am here speaking of. The only reason,
therefore, why, in their use, and the laws that have
governed their acquirement, they should be thought
to differ from the hues and tintings of the plumage, or
of the naked outer skin—the cere or the labial region
—would be their habitual, necessary concealment. If,
then, it can be shown that, far from their being
always concealed, they are prominently displayed
during the breeding season by certain birds which
possess them in a marked degree, then, as far as

IN THE SHETLANDS 10

these birds are concerned, there ceases to be a reason
for thus, in idea, separating them. Let us see, now,
how far this is the case. To begin with these kitti-
wakes, in their courting, or rather connubial actions
on the ledges-—as may be seen now, but much more
earlier in the year—both sexes open their bills widely,
and crane about, with their heads turned toward each
other, whilst at the same time uttering their shrieking,
clamorous cry. The motion, however, is often con-
tinued after the cry has ceased, and this we might
expect if the birds took any pleasure in the brilliant
gleam of colour which each presents to, and, as it
were, flashes about in front of the other. The effect
of this it is not easy to exaggerate, and if it is
extremely noticeable to an onlooker at some little
distance, what must it be to the bird itself, who looks
right into the almost scarlet cavity ? We have only to
think of the inside of some shells, or of a large, highly-
coloured flower-cup, to understand the kind of
esthetic pleasure that may be derived from such a
sight.

Similar, but much more striking, is the nuptial
behaviour of the fulmar petrel. A pair of these
birds lying near together, on some ledge or cranny of
the rock, will, every few minutes, open their bills to
the very widest extent, at the same time blowing and
swelling out the skin of the throat, including that
which lies between the two sides of the lower man-
dible, until it has a very inflated appearance. In this
state they stretch their heads towards each other, and

126 THE BIRD WATCHER

then, with languishing gestures and expression, keep
moving them about from side to side, uttering whilst
they do so, but by no means always, a hoarse, unlovely
sort of note, like a series of hoarse coughs or grunts,
as though in anger—and indeed, it is uttered in anger,
too. But though these motions, with the distension
of the jaws, always, as far as I have seen, accompany
the note when it is uttered, yet they are often con-
tinued afterwards, and sometimes commence and end
in silence, so that one has to conclude that they are
themselves of importance, and may have as much, or
even more, to do with the expression of the bird’s
feelings as the vocal utterance has.

It is difficult to give an adequate idea of the strange,
lackadaisical appearance which these birds present
while acting in the above-described manner. With
widely-gaping bills, swelled throats, necks stretched
out, and heads moving slowly all about, now up, now
down, now to this side, now to that, they look some-
times “sick of love,” like Solomon, and sometimes as
though about to be sick indeed—in fact, on the point
of vomiting. All the bird’s actions are peculiar, but
none more so than this wide gaping distension of the
mandibles, with the full view that it offers of the whole
interior cavity of the mouth. This last is not indeed
brilliant, as is that of the kittiwake, but, for all that,
it is very pleasing, of a delicate mauvy blue, esthetic
in its appearance, and in harmony with the soft and
delicate tinting of the plumage. There is no reason to
suppose that the latter beauty 1s unappreciated by the

IN THE SHETLANDS 127

bird itself, when seen in the opposite sex. Why,
then, should the pale mauve or blue of the inside of
the mouth—this purple chamber flung open for in-
spection during the season of courtship or of nuptial
dalliance—be not appreciated too? |

The razorbill’s mouth, inside, is of a conspicuous
light yellow, which, when exposed suddenly to
view, contrasts very forcibly with the black of the
beak and upper plumage. In dalliance these birds
throw the head straight up into the air, and, opening
their clean-cut bills, so that one sees the gay in-
terior like a line of bright gamboge, utter a deep
guttural note, which is prolonged and has a vibratory
roll in it, like the cry of the gorilla when angry
— 51 parva licet componere magnis—as described by
Du Chaillu. It 1s not loud, however, and so is easily
lost amidst elemental sounds and the cries of other
birds. The vibratory character of the note becomes
more marked under the influence of excitement, and
the mandibles themselves vibrate as they are opened
at intervals, somewhat widely. In the midst of their
duet the pair toss their heads about, catch hold of
each other’s beaks, and give quick little emotional
nibbles at the feathers of their throats or breasts. If
we can suppose that the birds are interested in each
other’s appearance whilst thus acting—that they ad-
mire or are sexually excited by one another—then it
would be strange if the bright flashing yellow so con-
stantly exhibited did not play its full part in producing
this result. Imagine ourselves razorbills, and thus

128 THE BIRD WATCHER

acting. Could we be blind to such revelations? I
think not.

The pretty little black guillemot—the dabchick of
ocean—may often be seen sitting in a niche of the
cliffs, and calling to another—its mate presumably—
either above or below it. The cry is, for the most
part, a weak, twittering sound, but occasionally rises
into a very feeble little wail or scream. All the while
the bird is uttering it he keeps raising and again de-
pressing his head and opening his beak so as to show
conspicuously the inside of his mouth, which is of a
very pretty rose or blush-red hue, almost as vivid as
that of the feet. The beak is opened more widely
than would seem to be necessary for the production of
the sound, as if to show this coloration, even though,
for the moment, there may be no other bird there to see
it. If, however, the rosy inward complexion were in
any way an attraction, it would be natural for a bird,
wanting its mate, to associate the wish with the action
of opening the beak, just as a lonely dove in a cage
will coo and bow as to a partner. Asa matter of fact,
the crying bird very soon flies to the other one (or
vice versa), and, standing beside her, utters his little
twitter as a greeting. She, being couched down,
responds by raising her head, so that the tip of her
beak touches, or nearly touches, his. Then he couches
also, and sitting thus, side by side—comfy on the sheer
edge of the precipice—the two turn, from time to
time, their heads towards each other, open their bills,
and twitter together. Every time they open them the

IN THE SHETLANDS 129

pretty rose tapestry of the mouth-chamber must be
plain to each or either, and the more so that they are
VIS-A-VIS.

In all these four birds, therefore, we have a nuptial
habit of distending the jaws, side by side with a bril-
liant or pleasing coloration of the region which, by
such action, is exhibited. Moreover, in the case of
one of them, more particularly—viz. the fulmar
petrel—this distension may be unaccompanied with
any note, though it always is with the odd gestures
and lackadaisical expression which I have tried to
describe. In: other words, the beak is sometimes
opened as a part of the bird’s nuptial actions, and not
merely with a view to the production of sound. That
originally this alone would have been the motive of its
being so can hardly, I suppose, be doubted, but may it
not be possible that the eye has gradually come to
share in a pleasure which was, at first, communicated
through the ear alone, and that a process of selection,
founded, perhaps, on some initial freshness of colour-
ing, has in time produced a special kind of adornment ?
If this were so, we might expect that some of the
birds so adorned would have the habit of opening the
billin this manner without uttering any note at all, or,
at least, that they would very frequently do so. Such
an instance we have in the shag, that smaller and more
adorned variety of the cormorant, which is much more
common on our northern coasts than the so-called
common one. One of the most ordinary nuptial

actions of these birds is to throw the head into the air,
K

130 THE BIRD WATCHER

and open and shut the beak several times in suc-
cession ; and sometimes they hold it wide open for
several seconds together. Each time, as the jaws gape,
a splendid surface of bright gamboge yellow is ex-
hibited, which the human eye, at any rate, has to
admire, and which exactly matches with the naked
yellow skin at the base of the two mandibles on either
side, where they become lost in what may be called
the bird’s cheek. This exterior brightly-tinted sur-
face is continuous with the interior and much larger
one, and my view is that the colour of the latter
represents an extension of that of the former, by a
similar process of sexual selection. ‘There is no doubt
whatever that this outward adornment largely adds to
the handsome appearance of the shag, and probably
those naturalists who believe in sexual selection at all
will think it as much due to that agency as the crest
and the sheeny green plumage. But if the closely
similar colouring of the adjacent interior region is to
be looked on as merely fortuitous (we escape here,
thank heaven, from the all-pervading protective
theory), why should the other be thought to be any-
thing more? If the shag had not this habit of
opening its mouth and thus displaying what is, in
itself, so very striking, it would be difficult, I think,
to accept sexual selection as an explanation even of the
facial adornment, since, if the one effect were non-
significant, so might the other be. As it is, I can see
no reason why it should not have brought about both.

I have often watched shags thus throwing up their

IN THE SHETLANDS 131

heads and opening and shutting their jaws at one
another, and though I have generally been fairly
close to them I have never heard them utter a note
whilst so doing. I consider these actions—together
with other still more peculiar ones, which they indulge
in during the breeding season——to be of a sexual char-
acter, and, if so, this silent and oft-repeated distension
of the jaws must have some kind of meaning. The
large and brilliantly-coloured surface which is thus
displayed supplies this meaning, as I am inclined to
think.

The fact that some birds—I have not the knowledge
to say how many—which do not open the beak in this
way, have yet the inside of the mouth brightly or
conspicuously coloured, may seem to throw doubt on
the theory here advanced ; but of course sexual
selection is not the only power which may have
produced such coloration, and the likelihood of its
having done so is decreased if there is no outer
facial adornment to match that within. The cuckoo
is one such example, for—I speak on the strength
of young ones which I have seen in the nest—the
whole of its inner mouth is of a really splendid
salmon colour. When approached, the nestling cuckoo
assumes a most threatening attitude, alternately
dilating and drawing itself in, now receding into
the nest, now rising up in it as though to strike,
having all the while its mouth wide open and hissing
violently. Its feathers are ruffled, and altogether it
has a quite terrifying aspect, to which the triangular

132 THE BIRD WATCHER

flaming patch that seems to burst out of the centre of
it—for the head is drawn right back upon the body—
very largely contributes. Especially is this so when,
as is mostly the case, there is considerable shadow in
the recess of the nest, amidst the surrounding foliage.
If it can be supposed that the large false head and
painted eyes of the puss or elephant hawk-moth cater-
pillars have been acquired as a protection against
enemies—as to which see Professor Poulton’s in-
teresting suggestion ’—then it certainly seems to me
more than possible that the flame-like throat of the
young cuckoo has been developed in the same
manner, pari passu with the loud, snake-like hiss and
intimidating gestures. In conclusion, 1 would suggest
that the bright or pleasingly-coloured mouth-cavity
which some birds possess may have a distinct mean-
ing, and be the product either of natural or sexual
selection.

1 The Colours of Animals (International Scientific Series).

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AERIAL PIRACY

CHAPTER XVIII
LEARNING TO SOAR

I HAD not before imagined that the puffin was one

of those birds that suffered from the extortions of
the Arctic or lesser skua, but I have found it out
to-day without knowing whether it is in a British Bird
book or not. Twice have the two passed me, close
together, and flying with tremendous velocity, their
wings—especially, I think, those of the skua—making
a portentous sound just above my head. The puffin,
though hotly pursued, was a little in front, and such
was his speed that it seemed doubtful if the skua
would overtake him. I suppose, however, that the
latter must be competent to do so, or, having learnt
otherwise by experience, he would long ago have
ceased giving chase.

The puffin, like the partridge and other birds that
progress by a succession of quick strokes with the
wings, flies with great rapidity. He is so small and
light that perhaps one ought not to be surprised at
this, so I reserve my wonder for the guillemot. How
this solid and weighty-looking bird can, with wings
that are small out of all proportion to its bulk,
narrow to a degree, and by no means long, get
through the air at the rate it does, how it can even
stay in it at all and not come plump down like the
wooden bird that it looks, is to me a mystery. The

133

134 THE BIRD WATCHER

wing, I think, is considerably smaller in proportion
to the body than is that of the wild duck. When |
see these birds going along over the sea at the rate
they do, it does not seem to me impossible that a man
should fly, if only his arms were to sprout feathers
and his pectoral muscles enlarge sufficiently to enable
him to move them with the same quickness. Is
there, by the by, any special adaptation to the
power of flight in the body and bones of a bat?
We are generally referred to such arrangements in
reference to the flight of birds, with a view to lessen-
ing the wonder of it, as if birds were the only things
that flew. Bats, however, are mammals like ourselves,
and their aerial performances are very wonderful. I
have often watched them and the swifts together, at
the close of a summer day, and have been hardly able
to decide which of the two showed the greater mastery
over the element in which both moved. The swifts
indeed alone skimmed on outspread wings, without
pulsating them ; but in quick, sudden turns in every
direction, in the power of instantaneously and abruptly
changing the angle of their flight, and especially in
descending, sometimes almost perpendicularly, the
bats excelled them. In regard to speed, the disparity
did not appear to be so great as I suppose it must
have been. Ido not know if any observations have
been made to determine the speed at which bats fly,
but they often seem to go very fast.

To return to the puffins, their powers of flight
extend a little beyond mere speed gained by constant

IN THE SHETLANDS 135

exertion, for they do sometimes make swift gliding
circles through the air, not indeed without moving
the wings at all, yet moving them but little, and at
intervals—a few pulsations and then a sweep. Yet
this is never very much. They seem to be just in
the way of getting to something more advanced in
flying, without quite knowing what they would be at.
However, I think in time they will begin to under-
stand, get a hint of their real feelings, like the
heroines in novels, who find all at once that they
have been in love for some while without noticing it.
(Shakespeare’s heroines, by the by, seem to have had
a clearer insight into their state of mind—but then,
there was more for them to know about.) They—the
puffins, I mean, not the heroines—will often, when
they leave their nests, mount up to a considerable
height and then descend in a long slant to the sea.
In this they are peculiar, as far as I have observed,
and for some time I could not imagine why they did
it; but tearing up some letters one day as I sat on the
rock’s edge and throwing them towards the sea, the
pieces were carried upwards, some of them rising almost
perpendicularly, and continuing to do so for some
while before they were blown against the higher slopes
of the cliff. The puffins, I then felt sure, must mount
upon this upward current of air, either as a matter of
enjoyment, or as finding it easier to do so. Probably
it is the latter consideration which influences them,
but ease is nearly allied to enjoyment, passes insensibly
into it; and thus, in time, these little puffins may

136 THE BIRD WATCHER

learn to soar. I was wrong, perhaps, to speak of
them as light, for they are solidly made, and no doubt
heavy enough in proportion to their bulk. Still, for
their type of flight, they seem to me to fly lightly ;
and there is a little—just a little—tendency, as I have
noticed, towards a higher development. I may be
mistaken, but I hope that it is so; no one can
become intimate with the puffin without wishing him
well. It is most interesting to see things in their
beginnings, and to speculate on what, if they continue,
they are likely, in time, to become.

The puffin has other and far more fatal enemies
than the skua. His remains, all picked and bleeding
—often as though a feast had but just been made on
him—I am constantly finding about, generally on the
rocks, but sometimes—once, at least—on the heather
above the cliffs. At first, when I began to find these
bloody relics, I thought of nothing but peregrines,
and the one inhabitant of this great lonely ness
confirmed me in this view. But I have never seen
one of these birds (or any other hawk) all the time
I have been here, and this seems strange if it is really
their doing ; for I have been out all day long when-
ever it has not poured continuously—which last,
indeed, in spite of the wretchedness of the weather,
has not happened often. I hardly think I should
have missed seeing one or other of these large birds
beating about in wide circles, as is their custom, did
they really sojourn here; and yet what more likely
place could be found? Lately it has occurred to me ,

IN THE SHETLANDS 1039)

the great skua, or the herring or black-backed gull,
may be the authors of these tragic occurrences, but
I have not seen any of them kill anything yet—not
even young birds. However it be, many a scene
of ruthless rapine is enacted on these black rocks,
beneath these great cliffs, by the surge of the sullen
sea. None see it; most, I verily believe, forget it.
But it is there, and always there ; and so, in ghastly
and horrible multiplication, through the whole wide
world. How unpitying, how godless is nature, when
man, with his disguising smiles and honey-out-of-
vinegar extractions, is not there to gloze and apologise,
to strew his “‘smooth comforts false, worse than true
wrongs” !

CHAPTER XIX
THE DANCE OF DEATH

N this first day of August I was awakened early

by something about the hut which I could not
understand. It kept shaking, and there was a noise
as of something in some kind of indirect contact
with it. I only thought of man; and what any one
should be doing on this solitary hill at such an hour
I could not for the life of me imagine. The shaking
and straining, however, continued ; so I got up, and,
on opening the door, away, with startled looks, rushed
two sheep—a dam and her big lamb—who had been
rubbing themselves against the iron wires that run
from each corner of the roof of my little sentry-box
to stakes set in the ground, to which they are fastened
in order to strengthen the building. How they
stared at me through the thin, damp mists of the
morning, petrified at first! and then how wildly they
plunged away! I remembered then often to have
seen sheep’s wool hanging to these wires ; and one of
them is very much loosened. So there is a little harm
done, even by these “woolly fools” ; and were they
wild creatures, the Philistine mind, which is the great
controlling power in everything, would have nothing
to set against it. Only the pleasure of killing it is
thought worthy to be set in competition against the
smallest degree of damage that a wild animal, however

138

IN THE SHETLANDS 139

beautiful and interesting, may do; but this is such
a great set-off that the whole country might be ruined
by beasts before any true sportsman would wish
to have the evil ended together with his daily

blood-draught. The same man who would keep
up foxes, to the ruin of agriculture and the de-
population of poultry-yards, makes a shout against
the poor cormorants, because to the million enemies
that prevent any one kind of fish from crowding out
every other kind, it adds its wholly inappreciable
efforts. ‘‘ This also is vanity and a great evil.” But
what a picturesque morning call to receive!

The three young guillemots are still where they
were, but the fourth, which was the first one I saw,
and the largest, seems to be gone. I saw this little
bird pretty plainly through the glasses, and often
flapping its little wings ; and it seemed to me evident
that it could not yet fly. But who shall say absolutely
that it could not, seeing how soon young pheasants
do, and how strange and little fitted for it they look?
Still more, who shall say that, though it cannot fly,
it may not have been able to flutter down to the sea?
Until, therefore, the young guillemot is actually seen
to leave the ledge, there can be no certainty as to the
manner in which it leaves it. Perhaps it has been
seen to. fe nen sais rien, nor do I want to except
through experience. What is a cake to me if / cannot
Eatiit! |

I have just seen a curious contrast. A pair of
birds, for some reason, began to fight, and fought

140 THE BIRD WATCHER
most vigorously. Suddenly they stopped, both of

them in a funny set attitude, and each the counterpart
of the other. A moment afterwards they were cosset-
ting with the greatest tenderness—every mark of the
strongest affection. It is to be presumed, therefore,
that they were bird and wife. Guillemots, in their
marital relations, are the most affectionate of birds ;
but this 1s compatible with the most violent jars—just
as it is amongst ourselves. ‘“‘ Ce sont petites choses qui
sont de temps en temps nécessaires dans Vamitié; et cing ou
six coups de baton entre gens qui saiment, ne font que
ragaillardir T affection.”

Now a bird flies in with a fish, and one of the two
chicks left on this part of the cliffs is fed. It was
just the same as in the make-believe yesterday—
attitude, etc., and the other parent bustling up—
except that as the chick was there to take the fish, and
wanted no pressing, the ceremony was much sooner
over. It is such a cold, sharp wind, now, though the
and of August, that I have to tent myself in my
Scotch plaid as though I were a young guillemot,
besides having a Shetland shawl round my waist, to
keep away the lumbago—which, for all that, still plays
light fantasias on this poor “‘ machine that is to me.”
So “here I and sorrow sit,’ on a razor-blade between
two precipices, the one sheer, the other a horrible
slant, and look down at another, on the ledges of
which are my guillemots and shrieking kittiwakes.
Heavens, on what slopes and inclines some of the
former sit and crawl! They can fly, it is true; but

IN THE SHETLANDS 141

I cannot, and cannot but remember this, though I
am so altruistic that I keep on imagining myself to
be them. Now I see the chick that I thought had
gone, making the fourth again, in all. It must have
moved some distance, to get to where it is. And now
comes the Shetland rain.

This was a sharp shower, and by being driven to take
refuge I have found a better place. I now look down
upon the same slab of rock, not thirty feet below me,
that I watched before across a gulf. Seven grown
guillemots are full in view, and, now and then, two of
the chicks. In these I notice that the black of the
upper surface is beginning to encroach upon the white
of the throat, which, a day or two back, extended to
the beak, being continuous with the breast and belly.
Now a little collar of black is pushing round from
both sides under the chin, and trying to meet, thinly
and faintly, in the centre. The colouring of the adult
bird, therefore, in which the neck and throat are
dark like the body, is in process of establishing itself.

Each of these two chicks is guarded by a parent
bird, who stands between it and the sea; but one of
them more relentlessly so than the other. Another
parent, who may pass for the mother, stands a little
behind one of them, and stretches outa wing. The
little one, snuggling up to her, presses its little head

amongst the feathers of her side, just under this wing.
_ The mother immediately clasps him with it, and, with
half of him thus concealed, he squats down on the
rock and evidently goes to sleep. And so close and

142 THE BIRD WATCHER

tight is the embracement that if the mother moves
a little, to one or the other side, the chick, moving its
little legs, goes with her, partly pulled and partly
waddling, but as though all in one with her. Thus
they sit together, mother and child, for half an hour
or more at a time; and, at these intervals, the chick
wakes up, comes out of his feathery dark-closet, and,
standing on the rock, preens himself, like a spruce
little gentleman. Then, in a few seconds, he goes in
again, and the mother, as ready as ever, covers him
up as before. The wing is just like an arm, tenderly
pressing the child to the mother’s side. But all this
while—and I think I must have watched them about
two hours—the other little chick stands free on the
rock, and most busily preens himself. He is guarded,
however, as I said. Had it not been for that other
chick that I saw go for quite a little walk by itself,
I should have thought that they always were, till they
left the ledge. But probably as they get older they
become just a trifle more independent, and possibly
also the size of the ledge or cranny they are born on
makes a difference.

A more marked or prettier picture of maternal
love than this mother guillemot sitting thus on the
bare, cold ledge above the great sea, and closely
clasping her little one to her side, I do not think all
bird life has to offer. Her feelings, too, are written
in her expression ; her looks are full of love, and of
peace, which is ever ready to pass into anxious care
and solicitude. It is good that sportsmen are not

IN THE SHETLANDS 143

an observant race of men, for sights like this might
upset them—however, to speak candidly, I don’t
think they would; that was only a fagon de parler. But
are sportsmen unobservant? for I make no doubt
that some will demur to this proposition. There are,
of course, exceptions to all rules, but my own opinion
is that it is the tendency of sportsmen to overlook, or
pay slight regard to, anything in an animal which does
not lie in the path of its being killed by themselves.
With its habits in relation to sis, its ruses, wariness,
and so forth, they necessarily become acquainted to
some extent, generally in a very inappreciative and
unsympathetic sort of way—a disgusting way, in fact
—‘‘very,” as Jingle says—but that, as a rule, is all, or
nearly all. The actuating motive is to kill, and the
rest—this that I say—follows of necessity. It is easy
to deny this, but I appeal to sporting works generally.
What a mass of them there are, and, off these special
lines, what a little do we know of natural history
from the greater number of them! We do not
sufficiently appreciate this truth, because the bulk of
what we do know in this department comes to us from
men who have in some degree been sportsmen. We
cannot, of course, expect such knowledge from those
whose activities lie in quite different directions—from
chemists, astronomers, lawyers, artists, etc.—and the
greater part of those who come much in contact with
animal life do so—sometimes almost necessarily—as
destroyers of it.

It is, I admit, an unhappy truth that the naturalist

144 THE BIRD WATCHER

is generally more or less in combination with the
sportsman, but it seems to me that as either element
gains ground the other weakens, so that if a man is
really and truly a naturalist the passion of killing —
and also of collecting—tends to pass into that of
observing. When the latter has become very strong
in such a man, so that he is interested in the more
minute and intricate things in the lives of animals—
in their domesticities and affections, their instincts,
their intelligence and psychology generally, and with
the questions and problems presented by all of these
—he is then, I believe, either no more a sportsman
or very little of one, though, perhaps, he may not care
to admit this to his old sporting friends. In a word,
the two things—observation of life and the taking of
it—are opposed to each other, though they may be
often combined in one and the same man. But whilst
the naturalist—by virtue of our savage ancestry—-has
almost always something of the sportsman in his
composition, the sportsman has, for his part, little or
nothing of the naturalist. I should never expect the
same man to be great in both departments, and I be-
lieve that a list of names would support this contention.
By “sportsman,” however, I understand a man who
kills animals primarily on account of the pleasurable
sensations which he experiences in so doing. He who
really only kills or collects for the purpose of increasing
knowledge (so he calls his collection) is no sportsman,
in my opinion—though I think he does a great deal
more harm than if he were one. The collector I look

IN THE SHETLANDS 145

upon as the most harmfully destructive animal on
this earth, and the more scientific the more destructive
he is. The other kind wearies, or may weary, but
he never does. His whole life, in thought or act, is
one long ceaseless crime against every other life.
His goal is extermination, and nature, for him, a
museum. He is the most disgusting figure, in my
estimation, that has ever appeared in the world, nor
is there any thought more painful to me than that
of the slaughter he is every day perpetrating, and the
extermination of species resulting from it. What
deaths may he not achieve in a lifetime! Of all
Thugs, he has the biggest record. That he is often
an agreeable, intelligent, and cultivated man—a very
good fellow and otherwise unoffending member of
society—is infinitely to be regretted. I would he
were a street nuisance, a swindler, tsar or grand duke,
to the boot of his much greater enormities, for then
he might be put down, whereas now there is little
chance of it.

Thank heaven he is not here, to put all these pretty
little families under glass cases, and steal every egg
on the ness. To get a thing dead, that is what his
love of nature amounts to, and he does it for those
like himself. I know the kind of people who enjoy
those groups in the museum at South Kensington,
and I am sick at heart that they should be there for
them. Who is there, with a soul in his body, who
can see a lot of young stuffed herons, say, in a nest

with their parents, without feeling more disgust at
L

146 THE BIRD WATCHER

the Philistine slaughter which procured them than
pleasure in the poor lifeless imitation for the sake of
which it is perpetrated, and will be perpetrated, over
and over again, for wretched little fusty museums
in thousands of provincial towns, who must all take
this as their model. Some years ago—three or four,
I think—a gentleman, commissioned to supply one of
these, visited Iceland in the breeding time. Though,
by the laws of the country, the birds and eggs, at
this season, are most strictly preserved, yet he
persuaded one of the magistrates to override these
laws and give him a permit for the procuring of
specimens, with over three hundred of which—young
and old, nests, eggs, and everything, he returned
to England. I commend the account of this matter
to the notice of the Society for the Protection of
Birds, and earnestly hope that, by communicating
with the Icelandic—or Danish-—Government they
may be able to prevent the threatened repetition—for
it was threatened in the account itself—of a thing
so horrible. It does not seem altogether impossible
that the magistrate in question, by allowing himself
to be persuaded into granting such permission,
committed an illegal act, for which, had it been
known, he would have incurred the just rebuke of
those in authority over him. If so, it should not be
difficult to nip in its poisonous bud an abuse which,
if unchecked, will make Iceland a paradise, not of
birds for ever, but of bird shooters and stuffers for a
few years only.

IN THE SHETLANDS 147

I believe that these poor stuffed groupings of bird
family life, for each of which a whole live family has
to be killed, and which have been so much praised, are
really nothing but an evil, or, at least, that there is no
good in them at all comparable to the evil. All
naturalists “‘of the right breed” who can see them
alive, and not dead, will. Those who cannot will
take little consolation in so poor a substitute, and will
rather spend their time in seeing what they can than
in filling their eyes with mere deadness. It is not
for such that these odious slaughters, these revolt-
ing barbarities are committed, but for sauntering
mechanics, booby children, “Oh my!”-ing servant
maids, and a few panel-painting young ladies. These
are the beneficiaries ; but the real moving motive of it
all—the causa causans—is the inextinguishable fire of
slaughter that burns for ever in the human breast. It

burns for ever, but, as time works his changes, some
new imagined motive must be found for the old
passion and the old deed; so over them both science
now flings her ample, hypocritical cloak. ‘‘ For the sake
of science’’—that is the formula of the professor who
sends out the naturalist to slay, and of the naturalist
who goes and slays. With that charm on their lips
both quench the thirst of their hearts, and feel no
evil in the draught. To the strong band of slayers
they add their strength, nay, supply it, if that were
needed, with an added incentive, preaching a crusade
of destruction to its very enthusiasts who, though they
love nothing better, yet may nod sometimes, like the

148 THE BIRD WATCHER

good Homer, and are then urged and begged to con-
tinue with ‘ Kill more, and fill our museums. Forget
not us poor old professors wearying amidst empty
glass cases. Throw us a specimen or two to mumble,
while yet there are specimens left. For the sake of
science, gentlemen, for the sake of science!” And
so, for the sake of science, they add to the dearth of
its living material, and kill, very complacently, the
goose with the golden eggs.

Science might use her influence to check the dance
of death, instead of making it caper more wildly, but
there is something in a museum which brings down
the high to the level of the low, and makes the
learned biologist and the banging idiot the best of
good friends and confederates. That museum must
be filled, and when it is full the next thing to do is to
fill it again; so the cry is ever for specimens, ever
“Kill!” That the creature wanted is rare makes it
all the more wanted, and a moment’s pause in getting
it may lead to another museum getting it first : per-
haps—coveted honour !—only just before it becomes
extinct. For extinction adds a charm to a specimen
when once your own museum has obtained it: the rarer
it becomes after that, the more the curators chuckle,
and with its ceasing for ever rivals are left out in the
cold. So science leagues itself with death, and the
museums roar, one against another, ‘‘ Kill !”

A young shag, now, to take these unpleasant re-
flections out of my mind, is being fed by one of the
parents on a great slab of rock, which has no nest

IN THE SHETLANDS 149

upon it that I can see. Now this young bird is
nearly, if not quite, as large as the grown one, and
only to be distinguished from it by its unadorned
- brown plumage and the paleness of the skin where
naked. There is no doubt at all, I think, that it
must long have been swimming, since I have seen
smaller and younger-looking birds doing so. The
young shag, therefore, must be fed for some time
after leaving the nest, and taking to the sea.

CHAPTER XxX
“BY ANY OTHER NAME”!

At last I have been able to extract a young puffin
from an all-turf hole, which, by reason of its
straightness, shortness and narrowness, seems to have
been made by the parent birds themselves, not merely
found and appropriated by them. Comme al est drdéle,
ce petit!—though not quite so comic as he will be
by and by. Here we have a very salient example
of the difference exhibited between the young and
mature animal, in regard to some specially developed
part or organ, since the beak of this baby is not only
without the smallest trace of the colours which seem
painted on that of its parents, but, to the eye at least,
shows hardly anything of the mature shape, though
measurement brings it out more clearly. It is of
a uniform black, and hardly looks more than an
ordinary beak when one thinks of the grown puffin,
or rather when one looks at any of the hundreds
standing all about. Though of a good size—some
three-quarters grown perhaps—there are no true
feathers on the body, at present—all fluffy, black
above and whitish underneath. That this black,
fluffy, colourless thing should ever become a puffin
at all, seems wonderful.
This is not the only little funny thing I have seen
to-day. On my way back to the hut I saw an absurd

150

IN THE SHETLANDS ae

little figure running before me, which, at first, looked
like nothing, but soon became a little great skua
(““my little good Lord Cardinal”). I pressed after, and
when it found me overtaking it, it stopped and bit
at me, but not as hard as another had done, nor was
it so rude when I took it up. This little thing was
still covered with a whitey-yellowish fluff, under
which the brown feathers were well appearing.
When I put it down it ran away lustily, yet in a slow
and heavy fashion, as though a great skua through
all. All the while, the two parent birds kept circling
round with distressed cries of “ak, ak!” and swooping
at me often. This they continued to do till I went
right away, even whilst I lay on the ground at some
distance, in hopes to see something between them and
the chick. They never touched me, however, so
that it is evident that the fierceness of these birds
very much diminishes as the chicks get older. This
one must have been out some time, I think, though
still in the fluff—or partly in it—so that I cannot say
exactly when the diminution commences; but the
younger the chick, I think, the fiercer the attack.
Valour, probably, has the same ebb and flow with the
smaller skua, but I cannot be sure of this, since I did
not see the chicks of the birds that attacked me lately.
What I am sure of, however, is that they attacked me
with unimpaired vigour and no loss of nerve, so that,
had I set my cap for them to knock off, why, they
would have knocked it off, and some one with a camera
might have made a photograph of it.

152 THE BIRD WATCHER

For all his hat tricks—and I have certainly felt
mine move as he flicked it—this great skua seems to
me a rather uninteresting bird, so far as he can be
studied on land. His piracies, presumably, take
place far out at sea, whilst jealousy to guard his
young makes it impossible to watch him in his care
and nurture of them. For the rest, he does nothing
in particular, and he has no wild cry like that which
rings out so beautifully to “the wild sky” from his
smaller relative. In beauty of form and of colour, in
grace and speed of flight, in the wild, inspiring music
of its cry, in its sportings, its piracies, its pretty
sociable ablutions, and in its attacks, too, wherein the
boldness is equal and the poised sweeps more splendid
and lovely, the lesser skua, say I, the Arctic skua—
Stercorarius crepidatus—a bird that has only one thing
prosaic about it, its prenomen of “ Richardson's”
namely, which is a thing it can’t help, it having been
forced upon it by prosaic people. Oh, how all the
poetry seems to go out of bird or beast when it is
named in that Philistine fashion, brought into per-
petual association with some man—some civilised
man—appropriated to him, made the slave of the
‘Smithy on) they) «browne On the NOninsonmm!
What a vulgar absurdity to make the name of a
species a mere vehicle for the sordid commemoration
of some one or other’s having been the first to see and
slaughter it! What, when we think of any wild
creature, do we care to know about that? What
should its name call up before us but a picture of

IN THE SHETLANDS Bm

its wild self alone? Who wants some man’s ugly
phiz to be projected upon it? The lion—the eagle—
the albatross—we see them as we say their names.
But Jones’s lion—Smith’s eagle—Thomson’s or some-
body’s albatross, what do these body forth for us?
Not only the animal itself, but everything it suggests,
as pertaining to it, that should make its appropriate
setting in our minds, the sea, the mountain peaks,
the sand-swept, bush-strewn desert, with the ideas
belonging to each, the feelings they arouse, the whole
mental picture in fact, is blurred or cruelly blotted
out by the obtrusive image of some human face or
form, which insists upon fitting itself to the irrelevant
human name, and which, as there is no knowledge to
guide it, is made up, usually, of the most common-
place elements. Thus an indistinct prosaic figure of
our own species is substituted for that of the species
itself{—obsesses us, as it were, and prevents that
legitimate, placid enjoyment which a naturalist should
receive through the name alone of any animal. I
hate these obtrusions. Why, at least, cannot they be
shrouded in the Latin only—since every species has
its Latin name? Thus decently buried, the Tem-
mincks and the Richardsons, the Schalks, Burchells,
and Grevys, would not so much bother us. But for
heaven’s sake let the vernacular name of any creature
have to do with itself only. It is intolerable to want
to see a bird of paradise—“in my mind’s eye
Horatio”—and to have to see Herr Schalk, or a
zebra and have to see Monsieur Grevy—a shadowy

154 THE BIRD WATCHER

gentleman each time, which we know is not the real
one—instead of a beautiful bird or beast. However,
it’s a prosaic age, and few feel: strongly on such
matters.

The other young great skua that I came across—a
day or two ago—was almost full-fledged, with only
hairs of fluff here and there. But though he looked
much more emancipated he did not run away like
this one, but lay crouched where he was. On ap-
proaching my hand, however, he bit it more fiercely
than any gull yet has, and when I took him up his
anger, or fear, or both, discharged itself at either
extremity, for from one he ejected a fish, and from
the other a mighty volume of white matter in a semt-
fluid state. It took effect, fortunately, on my umbrella
only, which I had to wash, and was very effective in
allowing the perpetrator to escape @ /a cuttlefish.

The note of the puffin is very peculiar—sepulchrally
deep and full of the deepest feeling. In expression
it comes from the heart, but in tone and quality from
somewhere much lower down. It varies a little, how-
ever, or rather there are more notes than one, and
some of them are combined into a poem or symphony,
which is the puffin’s chief effort. This, however, is
not often heard in its entirety—from end to end, like
the whole of a fine poem. As a rule one has to be
satisfied with extracts ; but when one does get it all, it
sounds something like this—for I can best express it
by a diagram.

Another note is much more commonly heard, viz.

IN THE SHETLANDS ats

a long, deep, slowly-rising ‘“‘awe!” uttered in some-
thing a tone of solemn expostulation, as though
the bird were in the pulpit. In the general quality
and character of the sound, this less-developed note
resembles the more elaborate one, or collection of
ones. It is more continuous, however ; the theme is
less broken. There are no separate headings; the
remonstrance is general, and includes everything
worth it in one grand diapason that never leaves off.
I do not, therefore, consider it a mere part of the
other—an extract from the full poem, or sermon—but
something different, yet akin; another, though allied,
treatment of a closely similar theme.

CHAPTER XXI
“NOT ALWAYS TO THE STRONG”

1 the little black sentry-box where | pass the night

there are two or three books belonging to its more
permanent occupant. One of them isa British Bird
book, and so last night when I got to bed I turned
up the peregrine falcon. The author finds it the most
infallible of all the hawk and eagle tribe ; the one that
least often misses its prey, and never attempts more
than it is capable of performing. Never in his ex-
perience, I think he says, has he seen it strike in vain.
I have not had his experience—I wish I had—but from
the little I have seen and what I hear now from an
eye-witness, I cannot help thinking that, in this respect,
the peregrine does not differ greatly from others of
his kind. It is there and thereabouts with him, I
suspect, for under my very nose, down in Suffolk, he
was foiled by a partridge in the most discreditable
way, and here in the Shetlands he is quite capable of
not succeeding with ordinary dovecote pigeons, as I
will show, not upon my own evidence, unfortunately,
for I wish I had seen it, but upon that of a lady, well
known here, who saw it and told me of it herself. I
got to Balta Sound last Sunday, and on the following
Monday I called upon Mrs. Saxby at her pretty little
white comfy cottage, who took me to look at a dovery
which, since my last coming, she had had put up in

156

IN THE SHETLANDS 157

her garden. Several rows of boxes were arranged
against one side of the house, but a less usual and
more attractive feature was a pretty little rockery on
the lawn beneath, about which the birds loved to be.
They cooed and strutted, or sat basking and sunning,
on every little pinnacle and ‘‘jutty frieze” of it, thus
at the same time emphasising their descent from the
rock-loving Columbia Livia and the dullness and want
of taste of the average mortal who, when he keeps
pigeons, never thinks of providing a rockery for them,
in accordance with their inherited tastes and proclivi-
ties. One glance was sufficient. It was instantly
evident that not even on the most elegant cot do these
pretty birds look nearly so pretty as amongst rocks
and stones tastefully and conveniently arranged. This
rockery was a flower-bed also, and with the flowers
the pigeons did not interfere, whilst the beauty of
them was greatly set off by their own, and their own
by that of the flowers. The art of exhibiting birds
and beasts to the most picturesque advantage, in which
we should be equally studying both our and their
happiness, as well as adding largely to our knowledge,
is indeed hardly understood amongst us.

Mrs. Saxby told me that her pigeons had attracted
some peregrines to the neighbourhood, and that they
had several times attacked them, but, as yet, without
success. In one pursuit which she witnessed a par-
ticular bird was singled out, separated from its
companions, and struck at again and again, but al-
ways managed to avoid the rush of the hawk, and, at

158 THE BIRD WATCHER

last, got back to the boxes, where it lay for some time
in a seemingly exhausted condition. Dr. Bowdler
Sharpe, in his gossipy work, The Wonders of Bird Life,
describes how, in modern falconry, he has seen a rook
dodge, time after time, with the same success, till he
at last reached the wood for which he had been
making ; and here, I think, the falcon was also a
peregrine. For myself, therefore, I do not believe
that this bird is a greater adept than others of the
class to which he belongs, nor do I see why he
should be. All have to live by overcoming in speed
and agility birds whose speed and agility has been
gained in direct relation to themselves, from which it
should follow that the hunter and the hunted ought
to fail and succeed about as often as each other.
There is probably no bird of prey that pigeons
have not a fair chance of foiling. I have seen some
wild ones that lived amongst the rocky precipices of
a hill overlooking Srinagar foil a pair of eagles many
times in succession, and I do not think one of them
had been caught when I went away. The great down-
ward rushes of these eagles, or rather the tremendous
rushing sound that they made—for I only seem to
remember them as swift, storm-like shadows on the
air—as also the marvels of speed and quick turning
exhibited by the pigeons, and their dreadful fear—
expressed sometimes vocally if I mistake not’—I shall
never, to the end of life, forget. In effecting their

1 That peculiar coo of terror which anyone may hear who enters any place
where dove-cot pigeons are kept, and approaches their boxes closely.

IN THE SHETLANDS 159

numerous escapes, the face of the rock stood them in
good stead, and they deliberately made use of it, in my
opinion, for, dashing in and out, they would cling to or
double against it in places where the eagles, as larger
birds, could not follow them so deftly, and had per-
force to check their speed. The principle was the
same as that by which a hare would be enabled to run
at top speed almost right up to a wall, whereas a man,
pursuing on horseback, would be forced to pull up at
a greater distance from it. The discrepancy, however,
being here not so great, and the weaker party having
often, in spite of the adage, to go from the wall, the
interest and excitement—to say nothing of its loftier
character—was in proportion. All this is vaguely,
though vividly, in my recollection, but I can give no
details ; 1t was years ago, and I carried no notebook
then. The sound, I find, is what has remained most
strongly impressed on my mind; those wonderful
grand rushing sweeps of the great pinions—the spirit
of all storms seemed to live in each one of them.

CHAPTER XXII
CHILDREN OF THE MISTS

Tt was to-day that I saw that pursuit by an Arctic

skua of a rock-pipit to which I have before alluded.
It was over the heath, though near the cliffs. As to
the rock-pipit never leaving the seashore (as I find
stated), or any other bird or animal never varying its
usual habits, that is a proposition which I will never
accept, it being altogether against my experience.
The skua pursued for some time, with murder, I
thought, printed upon every feather of him ; but the
pipit was too quick, and by turning and doubling in
a space proportionate to his own small size, eluded
every sweep of the enemy, who, at last, gave up. It
would appear, therefore, that this smaller skua preys
on small things, for one cannot suppose him sinking
so low as to rob a rock-pipit—who, besides, carried
nothing that I could see. Possibly, however, the
chase was for mere amusement.

These skuas bathe every day, and at all times of it,
in the two little meres, or pools rather, amidst the
heather, not far from the hut. Sometimes there are
a dozen or more together, of all shades of coloration,
and generally it is a social gathering. They seem
very exclusive, for I have never seen a gull bathing in
the same pool with them. This, however, is nothing,
as gulls do not breed on this part of the ness, and but

160

IN THE SHETLANDS 161

seldom fly over it, being chased by the skuas when
they do. Elsewhere I have seen them both bathing
at the same time; but always, I think, a little apart.
I never remember to have seen the great skua bath-
ing ; but then there is no special pool in his territory,
and partly for reasons given, and also because of the
hilly and bumpy character of the ground, it is difficult
to watch him. I have done my best, however, and
most of what I have to say about him I have said in
Bird Watching ; but it does not amount to very much.

These Arctic skuas bathe together very prettily.
They sit high and light on the water, duck their
heads under it, and throw it over them with their
wings. Between their ablutions they often sport in
the air, swooping at and chasing one another.
Their motions are such as one might imagine those
of elemental spirits to be, and their wild cry adds to
this imaginary resemblance. Oh, that cry, that wild,
wild cry, that music of the winds, the clouds, the drift-
ing rain and mist—like them, free as them, voicing
their freedom, making their spirit articulate! Who
can describe it, or put down into poor, paltry syllables
the clony that) lives init Wet none try. Let no
clumsy imitation disfigure it, but let it live for ever
_in the memory of him who has sat on the great ness-
side, on the dividing-line of sea and sky, and heard
it pealing so clearly, so cheerly, so gladly wild, so
wildly, madly glad. So let it come to him again in
his own soul’s music, scudding with the clouds,
driving with the driving mists, ringing out like “the

M

NOD THE BIRD WATCHER

wild bells to the wild sky.” And never let that sky
be blue that it rings to, unless in pale, moist patches,
drowning amidst watery clouds ; and never let there
be a sun, to be called one, but only a glint and a
gleaming, a storming of stormy light, a wet beam
flung on a rain-cloud. Child of the mists, of the
grey-eyed and desolate north-land, what hast thou
to do with the robes of the vine and the olive? To
be brief, I know of no cry, of no voice so exhilarating
as that of this poetic bird.

If the guillemot is less poetic, he is still more
interesting as a close study—or ar least one can study
him more closely. Coming to my ledge again this
afternoon, I find both the little chicks reposing be-
neath the parental wing, as described in the last
chapter. It is a misty and mist-rainy day, which
may incline them all the more to take shelter, if,
indeed, they are open to such influences. But
whether they are or not, they are not afraid to come
out, and in about ten minutes there is an interest-
ing scene. The partner of one of the two birds
that have chicks flies on to the ledge with a fish
that looks like a large-sized sardine in his bill. In-
stantly two or three of the birds standing about
begin to utter their curious cry—a kind of shriek-
ing Swiss jode/, ending in barks—till it swells into
a full chorus. Full of importance, and with a very
paternal look, the new-comer bustles up to wife and
child, and the latter, emerging with great vivacity,
receives the fish and gulps it down whole, showing

IN THE SHETLANDS 163

in the process such a receptive power as I have
hardly seen excelled, even in a snake. He looks
like a little bag that the fish goes comfortably into,
and that with a little swelling might hold another,
but hardly more. After this there is a matrimonial
greeting scene between the two parents. They make
little playful tilts at each other with their stiletto-like
bills, and both utter the curious yapping note with
which the jodel commonly ends. With this the
effusion is over, and things settle down into their old
course. The chick is now ready to go to sleep again,
and, with the fish inside him, toddles to his mother,
and pecks at, or, rather, rams with his bill, amongst
just those feathers that make his accustomed awning.
She, however, is not yet ready for him. She is
preening herself, and for a few minutes she keeps her
wing close. After that he is admitted, and the two
repose in the accustomed way. In about a quarter
of an hour the chick is out again, and this time goes
a little farther afield than usual. He is alone com-
paratively—about a foot from the sheltering wing—
when all at once the other parent—the father—open-
ing his bill, and jodel-ing, comes walking up to him,
bends his head over him, jode/-ing still, then tenderly
probes and preens him with the point of his bill.
He acknowledges this by burrowing into his new
guardian’s side, upon which the paternal wing opens
and closes upon him. It does not, however, seem to
go so well as it did just before with his mother, and
in a little while he comes out and goes over to her

164 THE BIRD WATCHER

again. She meets him, jode/s over him a little, and
soon they are lying close pressed together, as before.

I have now to mention that the parent who, up to
the present, has taken most charge of the chick, and
which | have therefore been calling the mother, has
the curious narrow white circle, or rather ellipse,
round the eye, with a straight line, also white, pro-
jecting backwards from the backward corner of it.
The other one has no such mark, or rather he has
it without the white feathers, for, as I believe is the
case with all these birds, the same thing 1s represented
by a depression or groove in the plumage, which is
especially noticeable along the backward-running line.
If we suppose the white mark to be an adornment
gained by sexual selection, what are we to think of
the depression which preceded it? Is it sufficiently
obvious to be noticed by the birds in each other, and
if so, can it be supposed to be pleasing to them ? ©
Considering how close together guillemots stand on
the ledges, I should think it must be as plain to their
observation as a parting down the hair is to ours.
Hair-partings are admired by us, and so, too, are
gashes on the face, even in intellectual Germany.
But though the mark may not represent any special
sexual adornment, the white colour which so power-
fully emphasises it may, and this, perhaps, has come
about owing to the nipping in of the feathers, along
the line of depression, having stopped the flow of the
colouring pigment.

The little chick, now, pushing, as it seems, against

IN THE SHETLANDS 165

his mother, stretches his legs straight out behind
him on the rock, and lies like this for a few seconds,
as we sometimes see a cat or a dog do. Then he
comes out, preens himself, and voids his excrement,
and I cannot but record—for indeed it was very
funny—that this hits exactly in the eye, and over
the face generally, another guillemot standing about
iwertcet trom him onthe edge of the ledge. The
poor bird thus distinguished stands with a comical
look, and for some while shakes its head very vigor-
ously. Later, when it comes somewhat near to the
chick, the latter’s mother utters the jode/ in a warning
tone of voice, seeming to say, ‘‘ Thus far, but no
farther.” The chick, having preened itself a little,
goes again to its mother, and is received this time
beneath her other wing, which is the farther one. I
look down upon them now a little more perpendicu-
larly, so that he seems almost to have disappeared
altogether.

_ It is really wonderful—and the incident just given
illustrates it—what a power all these sea-birds have
of ejecting their excrement to a distance. Not only is
it propelled with great force forwards, but also up-
wards, so that its course is crescentic ; and in this,
perhaps, we may look back to a time when the guille-
mot and fulmar petrel made nests, for it is by this
arrangement that the nest of the shag is kept clean
whilst the rock all about it is coated with excrement.
I mention the fulmar petrel as well as the guillemot,
because, whatever may be the case elsewhere, here

166 THE BIRD WATCHER

these birds lay on the bare rock without a shadow of
a nest.

I remark now what in my slaughterous days |
remember noticing, without attaching any meaning
to it, viz. that there is a particular line or scroll or
outswelling of feathers on each side of the guillemot’s
body, all along the lower breast and ventral surface.
They are longer than the close feathers in front, and
begin to be flecked with grey. It is just into this
zone of deeper plumage that the young guillemot in-
sinuates itself when wishing to go “seepy-by.” Also,
when the old bird flaps its wings I seem to notice
a little depression or alcove just underneath them—
the chick’s cradle, boudoir, or dormitory, as I am
inclined to think—like a sleeping-bunk in the wall of
a Highland cottage. Similar depressions I thought I
saw once on the back of the dabchick, when I watched
her domestic arrangements ; but I will not be sure in
either case. |

Once again the chick comes out and walks to a
little way from its mother. Having preened itself, it
goes back to her, and then flaps its little wings. The
quill feathers are growing and look just about an
inch long. They are a good deal separated from one
another, and have a very feeble appearance. Still, they
might serve to make a fall a long fall, which 1s all that
would be required of them to take their owner to the
sea. The preening over, the chick, with considerable
insistence, burrows once more under its mother’s
wing, and I now leave, it being all mist and raining

IN THE SHETLANDS __167

into mist. I had meant to see the fulmar petrels
again before returning, but by the time I get to the
top of the path leading down to them it is nearly six,
the drizzle increasing, and the mist on the hills thick-
ening. The hut stands sufficiently high for it to be
always enshrouded when a mist comes on, and it may
then be difficult to strike. However, from the round
house where the signals are shown, each morning, to
the lighthouse on the great stack opposite, by a man
who walks up from the village at the foot of the ness,
there winds a foot-track with posts stuck at long inter-
vals beside it. When one gets near to the fifth post
one should see the hut if the mist is not very thick,
and even if it is, one has then a good chance of strik-
ing it. The signal-house, or rather shed, one may
strike by going constantly upwards till the highest
point is reached ; but it is possible to miss it, and also
the track between post and post. As the gulls and
the two kinds of skuas have each their separate
breeding-place upon the ness—thus, as it were, map-
ping it out—they, too, are of some assistance in
finding one’s way. Still, the possibility of a night
out at the end of any day is not a pleasant thing to
think of, and I am always very glad when I see the
hut through the mists, and still gladder when there
are no mists to see it through.

It seems wonderful that any corner of the United
Kingdom can hold a summer like this—little as I
mistake the United Kingdom for paradise. It is like
a bad November in England, but with more of the

168 THE BIRD WATCHER

spirit of youth and freshness in it; always thought
that the wind is perpetual and multiplied by about a
hundred. I am told this summer is unprecedented,
even in the Shetlands, but bad weather precedents are
seldom remembered by the seasoned inhabitants of a
place. I, as a visitor, can remember the June and
July of two years ago, and “‘if it was not Bran, it was
Bran’s brother,” as the Highlanders say.

I forgot to mention that whilst watching the guille-
mots on the ledges, one of them flew down into the
sea, just below, which was like a great, clear basin,
and thus gave me the first opportunity I have yet had
of seeing a guillemot under water. It progressed,
like the razorbill and puffin, by repeated strokes of
its wings, which were not, however, outspread as
in flight, but held as they are when closed, parallel,
that is to say, roughly speaking, with the sides, from
which they were moved outwards, and then back, with
a flap-like motion, as though attached to them all
along. Thus the flight through the water is managed
in a very different way from the flight through
the air. '

The descent to these guillemot ledges—for they
represent the first only, and lowest, of the up-piled
strata of which the entire precipice is formed—seems
to me, who am no particular cragsman, to get worse
every day. There are parts of it which I very much
dislike—a green edge, and not much of it, above
a well-nigh precipitous slope of the same lush grass,
starred, here and there, with points of rock, and

IN THE SHETLANDS 169

ending in nothing—sheer vacuity. How one would
fly down this, and then over !—but not like a guille-
mot. It is horrid to think of, and the little painted
puffins seem waiting to see it take place—grouped as
they are on every rock and all over the green spongy
turf, honeycombed everywhere with their breeding-
holes—a vast amphitheatre of impassive spectators.
Lower down, when it gets to the rock, it seems
Ssdien wipe doubt if it really is: “Ihe? path) then
leads over a great jagged spur of the precipice, made
up of its down-tumblings from the heights above,
which are piled very loose, so that the blocks are
sometimes hardly held together by the soil between
them, this having been formed entirely out of their
own crumblings and disintegration. I was appalled,
the other day, by displacing a huge one just
above me, which | had been going to climb up.
It looked as firm as it was massive, and I have been
very careful since. That boulder, which, had it really
fallen, would have brought down an avalanche with it,
has a nasty look to me now, and I have to pass it
each time, descending and returning, the whole path
being a razor’s edge, though the mere climbing is easy
enough.

As I halted and looked back, this afternoon, in the
midst of my ascent, I was struck by the figure of a
shag, or smaller cormorant, standing in the exact centre
of the highest ridge of one of those great isolated
piles of rock that the sea has cut off from their parent
precipice, and which are called here “stacks.” It

170 THE BIRD WATCHER

had the wings spread out, after its fashion, and
looked thus, and in its “ pride of place,” absurdly like
the heraldic eagle of some cock-crowing nationality or
other: American, Austrian, Russian, or any of them
—for they all crow and will all, one day, “yield the
crow a pudding.”

What month in the year was it that King Lear was
turned out into the storm? This is August, but what
a night! I can see no farther than a few paces out-
side the hut. All is mist, with spit-fire storms of rain,
and a wind that seems as though it would blow the
ness into the sea. “A brave night to cool a courtesan
in,” and so it was, last night; nor did it greatly difter
the night before.

The wind is not so pleasant to hear at night-time
here as itis in England. I cannot lie and listen to it
with the same feelings. It has not the same poetry,
for there are no trees for it to sigh and moan through,
and therefore it cannot produce those sad, weird,
mysterious sounds which appeal so powerfully to the
imagination. Instead, it strikes the hut with sudden
bangs and blows which upset one’s nerves and have an
irritating effect upon one. There is noise, racket,
and bluster, but no mystery, no haunting mournful-
ness. It plays no “eolian harps amongst the trees.”
No, the wind here is “the fierce Kabibonokka”’
that—

‘¢ Shouted down into the smoke-flue,

Shook the lodge-poles in his fury,
F lapped the curtain of the doorway,”

IN THE SHETLANDS 171

but not the wind that one knows so well in England
and hears for ever in those lines of Maud—

‘¢ And out he walked when the wind like a broken worldling wailed,
And the flying gold of the ruined woodlands flew through the air.”

There can never be a wind like that here, where
there are no leaves when “summer woods are leafy”
and no trees “‘ when winter storms sing 1’ the tree.”

Plague take the wind! It 1s like a bombardment.

CHAPTER XXIII
LOVE ON THE LEDGES

HE ledges are thinning. There are only thirty-
seven birds now where I counted more than a
hundred the other day ; but some may be coming back.
My special young one is lying on the ledge with its
face to the cliff, and the white-eyed bird standing over
it ; but very soon it turns, and is under the wing, as
usual. The left wing seems the favoured one. Always,
except once, ithas been that. The other young one is
also lying under the wing, just as it was yesterday,
and here, too, as always before, itis the left one. All
these guillemots keep constantly uttering exclamations,
as they may be called—different intonations of a deep
“ur!” or “oor!” with an occasional much louder
“ara!” or “ hara!” of which last I have spoken. This
has been the case since I came here. There is a great
deal of expression in these sounds—quite as much so,
it seems to me, as in some of our own exclamations.
Any emotion which rises above the ordinary level of
feeling, be it to do with fighting, feeding, loving, may
give rise to the prolonged, deep jode/. The plain
parent now flies in with a fish for the young one, and
there is exactly the same scene as the last time, all the
birds near, as well as the father and mother, jode/-ing
excitedly. The fish is then laid on the ledge before
the chick, who, getting it head downwards, swallows

172

IN THE SHETLANDS 173

it voraciously. Directly afterwards the white-eyed
bird, for the first time that I have yet seen, flies from
the ledge into the sea, but too far off for me to watch.
The other one remains, but he does not seem ready
with his wing. The chick makes several attempts to
take sanctuary, but they are not responded to, so heis
reduced to standing and preening himself, the father
standing just behind him, between him and the sea.
At last, however, he forces himself under the wing,
but it hangs over him awkwardly, not clasping him at
all, and very shortly—in less than a minute—he
comes out again.

A well-grown young shag now, distinguishable only
by its brownness, is fed on the rocks by the old bird.
The manner of it is just the same as when on the
nest. It flaps its wings the whole time it is being fed,
as young rooks do, and the parent at last shakes it off
and flies down into the sea. I cannot follow these
shags for any distance under the water. They seem
to strike deep from the moment they plunge, and the
way they plunge, indeed, suggests this ; but guille-
mots often swim for a long time, not far below the
surface. Contradicted again! to my very face, by
some shags in the pool here. They have swum quite
like the guillemots in this respect. Birds are some-
times very rude.

The eyed guillemot has now been absent for two
hours, and all this time the chick has sat or stood with
the other parent by him, but not under his wing, nor
have I seen any further attempt on his part to get

174 THE BIRD WATCHER

there. This certainly looks like a partition of office
as between the two parents, but it is hardly worth
while saying so, for everything one says or thinks one
hour or day is contradicted the next. There is little
or no uniformity in the actions of birds. That is my
constant experience. The other chick has been for
long clasped under the parental (left) wing, but
whether it has always been the same parent I cannot
say, for there is nothing here to distinguish the two.
Now, however, there is an interlude, both the parent
and chick standing and preening themselves. The
chick stands comparatively alone, with nothing be-
tween him and the sea. Now he has disappeared,
moving a little along the cliff’s edge, but soon I see
him again, clasped tight beneath the wing of one or
other parent, who sits close brooding on the rock. I
think there has been a change of parents here, so here
is the accustomed contradiction.

Looking down through the glasses at the chick, it
appears to me to be feathered, but to have, at least on
the back, a close crop of down projecting above them.
The beak is nothing like so long as the parents’,
either actually or in proportion to the chick’s size, or
the size of its head. The feet, however, are relatively
quite as large, or even larger. The bird is getting on
in size, and again I wonder why, if it is taken down
on the parent’s back, this flight is so long delayed. It
is difficult, indeed, when one sees the little wings
flapped, to think that the chick can fly yet, in any
proper sense of the word, but it does not seem to me

IN THE SHETLANDS 175

impossible that these little wings should be adequate
to take it down in a slanting line to the sea, and the
longer it stays on the ledge the less impossible does
this become. This gives a reason for its staying so
long ; but why should the mother not take it, if she
does do so, almost from the very first ?

It seems funny to be looking over a ledge, all day
long, and to eat one’s lunch whilst so doing. But
I just look up to make my notes, and on looking
down again, almost right under me, I see a seal hang-
ing lazily in this quiet shore-pool of the sea; for
to-day there is hardly a foam-line round the stacks
and rocks. When he sinks I can follow him for some
time under the water. His hind fins or feet seem to
become quiescent, as though only the front ones were
used ; but this last I cannot see. As he recedes,
going both downwards and outwards, he becomes
greener and greener, and the green darker and fainter,
till, at last, having first looked dimly luminous, he
disappears. Some guillemots are on the water, too—
thirty-two in all, that I can see—but not one of these
has a young one swimming by it. Farther off, a kitti-
wake, I think, is feeding on the floating carcase of one
of its own species—a young one. Horrid sight!
The prettiness of the bird contrasts so with what
it is doing. But what a joy should this be to the
optimist, who always seems to extract a comfort from
the most uncomfortable things, as though they not
only justified his position, but made it self-evident.

Another half-hour has gone, and still the eyed or

176 THE BIRD WATCHER

white-eyed parent has not returned, nor has the chick
ever been taken properly under the wing of the other
one, or stayed there more than a few seconds, when
it has managed to squeeze itself in. For the last two
hours and more, too, it has stood and squatted on the
rock, giving up all attempts, and the parent never
volunteering. Thus I leave them ; but coming again
the next day, about noon, I find the chick lying in the
usual way under the right wing of the plain parent
bird. It is evident, therefore, that this office may be
performed by either parent ; but I still think one of
them—the mother, as I suppose—undertakes it more
willingly and cheerfully. She—the white-eyed bird—
is off the ledge, this being the first time I have not
found her there on my arrival.

The other chick is gone. Yes, gone; for I go to
several points from which I can see the whole of this
small ledge—on a part of which only I look directly
down—and from none of them can I see the second
chick, which, were it there, I think I must. Without
any doubt, this time, I think, it is gone, and so must
have either flown or been carried down within the
last twenty-four, or rather twenty-two, hours ; for it
was here on the ledge with its parent when I went
away yesterday, at two or thereabouts. There are
only seven birds in all, on this ledge, now. On
another one where, when I first came, there were
more than a hundred, and, two days ago, sixty odd,
there are now fifteen only. Elsewhere, counting all
the ledges I can see, there are only forty odd birds—

IN THE SHETLANDS 177

so that soon the whole cliff will be empty. That,
however, will be nothing to me. But my little chick !
Would I had seen it go!

A guillemot now flies up to the ledge underneath
this one, and which I cannot see for this—for I have
returned to my original position—and as it disappears
there, there is a great jodel-ing from several birds—
I cannot say how many. On going round to the
point of rock which fronts them both, I see that there
is another young guillemot on this lower ledge,
squeezed into the corner angle of it, which I think
I have missed all along. It is, indeed, extremely easy
to miss a chick, even when one seems to see the whole
ledge very plainly. Nevertheless, there can be no
doubt that one of the two on my ledge is gone. My
own little one—still under its mother’s left wing—is
the only one left there now. After a while it comes
out, and the mother, as she stands by it, from time to
time just stirs or nibbles the feathers of its face with
the end of her bill—an action which has all the spirit
of wiping a child’s face or nose. The father now
walks up, stops in front of the chick, bends down its
head, and jode/s. Then it lifts it up and jode/s more
loudly ; then, stooping again, preens the chick’s head
and face a little with the point of its bill, and nibbles
at it affectionately. ‘The chick, after this, goes off on
a little excursion along the ledge, then toddles back
again, and, on getting near home, makes a little run to
one of its parents, who, again bending down its head

with the neck curved over it till the point of its bill
N

178 THE BIRD WATCHER

almost touches the ledge, and with both the wings ex-
tended so as altogether to enclose it, jode/s and trills
softly, and then nibbles it as before. And are not
these pretty little domestic scenes, on the cold bare
rock, with the sea beneath and the blowing wind all
about? What a snug little boudoir this ledge of the
precipice—white with droppings and wet with the sea-
spray—becomes as one watches them! Such tender-
ness amidst such roughness seems wonderful.

And now I have to make one of those doubtful-
certain entries—certain at the time, doubtful as one
thinks of it afterwards—like that about the raven.
It will be admitted that it was natural for me to sup-
pose that the bird which has just acted this scene with
the chick was one or other of its parents ; but, to my
surprise, just after it is over and the chick has toddled
away to the white-eyed bird—undoubtedly its parent,
and the only one so marked on the ledge—in flies
another guillemot with a fish, and amidst loud jode/-
ings from the few birds on the ledge, gives it to the
chick. Afterwards this bird, who seems thus to have
proved its relationship, walks a little way along the
ledge, then returns, and he and the white-eyed one
make passes at and then nibble one another with their
bills so energetically, jode/-ing and barking the while,
that it almost seems as though it would pass into a
fight—more proof that they are married. Then the
one that has brought the fish flies off to sea again.
Now he flew in with that fish just as the chick had
toddled away from the bird that had petted it, this

IN THE SHETLANDS 179

bird continuing to stand where it had been, and I had
been watching them up almost to that very second,
my head over the ledge all the time. Even could
the bird which had petted the chick have flown off
without my noticing it—which I do not think it could
have done—it would have been impossible, surely,
for it to have caught a fish and returned in so very
short atime. The chick, therefore, appears to have
been petted by a third bird, not being either of its
parents, for the white-eyed one stood apart all the
time, so that even if it had not been distinguished in
this way I could not have confused it with either of
the other two. This is interestiag, I think, if it is
really the case, for here, as with terns, we see the
beginning of what might in time lead to something
similar, in a social community of birds, to what we see
in those of insects—the absorption, that is to say, of
the individualised parental instinct into the generalised
one of the whole community.

It is natural, at present, we will suppose, for every
pair of birds in acolony of terns or guillemots to feel
affection for, and to tend, their own young. Were this
affection, and the active expression of it, to extend to
the young of other members of the community, then,
as every pair of birds would probably be able to supply
the wants of more than its own young, a lesser number
than the whole community would be sufficient for
nursery work, leaving the others free for—what we
cannot say, but nature might evolve her product out
of the material thus placed at her disposal. Some

180 THE BIRD WATCHER

new activity might well arise, which, if fostered, would
be of advantage to the general commonwealth. But
let us consider the old ones. Terns, as we have seen,
are vigorous in the defence of their eggs and young.
They mob and attack any one—be it bird, beast, or
man——who trespasses upon their breeding-grounds.
If, therefore, only about half the colony were needed
for the nurture of the young, and thus gradually came
to be the equivalent of the workers amongst ants and
bees, in the other half there would exist the elements
of a soldier caste. Of these it would become at first
the more special, and in time the exclusive business,
to drive all enemies away from the ternery; and
since efficiency in so important an office might
well outweigh the otherwise ill effects of a loss of
fertility in certain members of the commonwealth, the
soldiers, both male and female, might, in the continuous
prosecution of their task, come gradually to lose the
sexual instinct, which, again, would allow the others
to lay, with advantage, a greater number of eggs. I
have mentioned the case of a dog making regular
daily expeditions to a ternery, in order to feast upon
the eggs ; and if one dog could commit havoc like this,
what might not some wild egg-eating species do, if
not efficiently kept away ? It is obvious that the eggs
thus destroyed might amount to more in number
than those by the loss of which they would be saved
to the community ; and, on the other hand, a caste
whose sole task it was to guard the eggs and young
might be competent to guard a greater number than

IN THE SHETLANDS 181

the whole community would be, if “a divided duty ”
claimed their attention.

It is not at all necessary to show that the socialism
of insects has advanced along these lines—their
greater fertility allowing of a still more remarkable
specialisation—in order to make out a case for the
possibility, or even likelihood, of its hereafter doing
so in the case of some birds. There are insect com-
munities, however, composed of males and fertile
females, or of the latter only, that may be compared,
without much violence, to those of terns or weaver-
birds. There are the mason-bees, for instance—
numbers of whom labour side by side, each at making
its own nest, in which, perhaps, we see an early state
of our more truly social hymenoptera. But in nature
many ways constantly lead to the same goal, and what
this is, or is likely to be, must depend on the kind of
advantages which the general conditions prescribe and
make possible. It is difficult in the case of animals,
no less than in that of man, to imagine any great
social advance except through, or side by side with,
subdivision of labour ; and for real social labour to be
subdivided, it must first be extended, that is to say in
common. The separate attention paid by each pair
of birds in a community to its own young only is
not subdivision of labour in the proper socialistic
sense of the term; for this labour is not social, but
solitary. It appertains, that is to say, to every
solitary-breeding animal, or, if not to both parents, at
least to one, so that, at best, we do not get beyond

182 THE BIRD WATCHER

the family, which in social matters is generally taken as
a unit. Numbers of animals living and breeding to-
gether may be said to be social by virtue of their
contiguity, and, no doubt, are so, to a greater or less
extent, in their feelings. But until they help and
support one another in some way, true social labour
has not begun amongst them. When it does begin it
will become distributed through the whole community,
and it is only after this early point in social advance
has been reached, that the other and greater advance,
which consists in the limitation to a certain number
of the labour which was before shared by all, can take
place.

To this first stage these guillemots have, perhaps,
not yet attained, but if some of them are interested
in, and show kindness towards, the young of the
community generally, as distinct from their own, then,
as it appears to me, they are on the way towards it, and
when they have reached it they will probably begin to
advance socially along the general lines by which both
man and social insects have advanced. This is why
such a little incident as that I have just recorded is to
me a matter of so much interest, so that I get quite
excited in trying to be sure about it. It may be little
or nothing now, but what does that matter if, in no
more, perhaps, than another million of years, it has
led to most important developments, if not in guille-
mots, yet in some other species of bird, possibly in
a very great many —supposing, that is, that we
do not exterminate all of them—which is likely,

IN THE SHETLANDS 183

except perhaps sparrows—not counting poultry of
course. Already the terns have gone a good deal
further than the guillemots, for‘they not only show
the liveliest interest in the common progeny, and
combine together for their defence, but there is also,
I believe, a good deal of communistic feeding amongst
them. Other birds, perhaps, have gone further still.
In what does the interest taken by a bird—let us
say by one of these guillemots—in a chick which 1s
not its own originate? Does not the sight of it
arouse, by association of ideas, all those feelings
which, but shortly before, its own chick was daily
arousing ? And if this be so, does it not in a manner
mistake it for its own? It would be interesting,
were something to happen to the parents of this
little chick, to see if it would be fed and taken care
of by any of the other birds on the ledge. If it were
to be, I should be inclined to think this the reason of
it. That one bird (or pair of birds) should foster the
young of another, knowing all the while that it was
another’s, and not its own, seems to me very unlikely.
There must be some confusion of thought. By asso-
ciation of ideas the stranger chick would excite in the
stranger bird the feelings proper to rearing, whilst at
the same time supplying in itself the proper object
for their translation into act. When once this point
had been reached, the foster-parent, if it did not look
upon the chick as its own, would have—always sup-
posing it to be one of these guillemots here—to
retain a clear recollection of the chick that it had

184 THE BIRD WATCHER

reared, all the while that it was rearing the foundling,
to keep the two distinct, and remember not only that
it had finished with its own chick, and seen it leave
or gone off with it from the ledge, but also that
it had not had another one since then. But though
I believe that mental association may call up a very
clear image of some past event in a bird’s mind,
I cannot credit it with such retentiveness and per-
spicuity of memory as this. Moreover, what idea of
ownership in a chick cana bird have, other than those
feelings which compel it to rear it? When once they
are roused, the chick before it is its own.

But has not this a bearing upon the nature and
origin of sympathy? When we sympathise with
others we, by a quick mental process, put ourselves
in their place, and feel to a lesser degree in ourselves
what we suppose them to be feeling. In a certain
degree, therefore, we are them, but our reason assures
us that this is not really the case. We can distinguish ;
but can animals, or can they other than partially ?
Anthropologists have much to say—sometimes, per-
haps, almost too much—-on the extent to which
savages mistake their subjective impressions for ob-
jective reality ; but what applies to the savage should
apply with much greater force to the animal. When
a herd of fierce animals—as, say, of peccaries—are
filled with sudden rage at the sight of a companion
struck down by some beast of prey—bear, jaguar, or
puma—and attack the assailant, is each member of it
distinctly conscious that he is acting in defence of

IN THE SHETLANDS 185

another, or does he not, rather, imagine that he is
repelling an attack made upon himself? I believe
myself that this last, or something very like it, is
really the case, and that sympathy, if traced far enough
back along the line of our descent, would lead us to
a time when it made no conscious distinction between
itself and its object ; thus rooting our best feelings in
the purest selfishness.

There is, indeed, this to be objected against the
noblest emotions by which the highest natures are
actuated—those very exalted ones about which there
has been, and still is, so much self-laudation—viz.
that they are all tainted in their origin. This is
an objection—I mean as against the optimistic stand-
point—which nobody ever seems to consider ; but
with me it is a very grave one. What matters 1t—
that is to say, what ground of jubilation is it—that
some ‘‘noble numbers,” as Herrick calls them, have
somehow got into a great ‘“sculduddery book,”
written upon a plan, and, as far as we can see, with an
object which never contemplated or thought of them
at all, but only of the sculduddery, in relation to
which they exist as a small pool may by the side of
a great muddy, turbulent river, out of which it has
leaked, and, by some accident, become clear? If this
is all, then they are mere by-products, and it is not
by a by-product that any scheme can be justified.
It is to the scheme itself we must look, judging of it
by what seems its clear object and intent, and having
regard to the mass of the facts through which it

186 THE BIRD WATCHER

reveals itself; not to some few merely which may
seem, at first sight, to be in opposition to these, but,
looked at more closely, are seen to be sequences only,
quite reconcilable with them, and not obstructing
them in any way. In a word, we must think of the
stream and flow of the river, not of some eddies in it,
or a back-wash here and there. Though it does not
seem to be, yet the water that makes these is really
going the way that the stream is, and our “noblest
numbers,” when closely analysed, are found to be
“ sculduddery ” after all.

Es tanzen zwolf Klosterjungfraun herein

Die schielende Kupplerin fuhret den Reihn

Es folgen zwolf lusterne Pfaffelein schon
Und pfeifen ein Schandlied im Kirchenton.

But can I be quite sure that it was a strange
guillemot, and not one of the two parents, that
acted that little scene with the chick which I have
described? It is easy, certainly, as I know by ex-
perience, for a bird to go off the ledge without one’s
noticing it—even under one’s very nose—if one’s eye
is not actually on it all the time, and that, I suppose,
mine was not. Again, the plain parent has just made
a very quick return with another fish, though not,
I think, quite so quick as the other one would have
been, had it been he and not a stranger bird that
I had seen on the ledge all the while. All I can say
is that it certainly looked like what I supposed was
the case, and I feel pretty sure that it was so; but
I have never seen such a thing before, and it is more

IN THE SHETLANDS 187

likely, perhaps, that I was mistaken. Still, one must
remember the interest taken by the other birds
when a chick is fed, as shown by their jode/-ing, and
also that these have now no chick of their own to be
busy with.

There is something in the sight and feel of a fish,
indeed, which goes to the soul of a guillemot. Two,
with one between them, have been making a most
extraordinary noise, harahing and jode/-ing as they
bend over it. It is laid on the ledge and taken up
again several times, by one or another of them, and
finally one swallows it. This jode/-ing note of the
guillemot—and there is no other word, to my mind,
which expresses it nearly so well—constantly begins
with another and almost louder one, of two syllables,
which is pretty exactly like the word hara (“ hurrah!”
but with the first syllable as in harrow). There
is a moment’s pause, and then follows a second
““hara”’—or “ harrah” would be the better spelling—
in a higher key, and it is the last syllable of this
which, prolonged in a wonderful manner, makes what
I call the jode/, and this jode? often ends in a kind of
barking. ‘ Harrah—harrah—hfarrah !” from one bird
or another, without its continuation and in a low,
sometimes almost a soft tone, is constantly to be heard
on this ledge, and, no doubt, on all the ledges.
Though suitable to any and every occasion, it seems
mostly the vehicle of parental affection. As, for
example, the chick which has been asleep, and almost
buried for some time, now rouses himself, comes out,

188 THE BIRD WATCHER

and begins to walk along the ledge. The mother
follows and says “harrah!” He stops and turns.
She goes up to him with “harrah!”; then, bending
down her head till her beak almost touches the rock,
she jodels softly, as though very pleased both with
herself and him. He moves on again. ‘“‘ Harrah!”
(“Will he really do so?”) He turns to go back.
“Ffarrah!” (“In that case she will follow him.”)
And so on and so on, an “‘harrah!” for whatever he
does, there being, in each one, a certain indefinable
tone of interest, mixed with a little surprise.

During this last promenade the chick flapped its
wings a good deal, and, once or twice, came a little
towards the edge of the rock, nor did the mother
keep so between it and him as I should have expected.
By some instinct, however, he goes along the length
of the ledge, but never for more than a step or two
forward towards the sea. One of the two chicks is
already gone, and this restlessness on the part of the
other, which has never been so marked before, may
be the prelude to his going too. I would fain see the
flight, if I could, however it may be, but I have been
here all day, and mother and chick are now, again,
crouched together as usual. It is near seven, and so
cold and wretched that I can stand it no longer, but
have to go. When I get up I can hardly stand
steady, and lumbago has crept upon me unawares.
Understanding that he lodges with me, the toothache,
later, pays him a little visit, and the two chat together
all the evening. Bitterly cold it was during the last

IN THE SHETLANDS 189

hour or so, and a wretched sort of day altogether.
Getting to bed at last—for cooking takes a woful time
—TI turn to the British Bird-book again ; and reading
there about the plaintive cry of the young guillemot
for food reminds me that I have not once heard
either of my two little birds utter a syllable—at least,
not to be sure. Once I thought I caught a very faint
thin note, such as most young birds utter, but that
was the only time. When I was here before, too, at a
time when there were numbers of young birds on the
ledges, I never noticed this cry, so find it difficult to
believe that it ever attracted the attention of the
French sailors sufficiently to make them name these
birds “ guillemots” in imitation of it, as is here sug-
gested. To judge by all I have seen, the young
guillemot is the most contented little thing, and
generally squats asleep under the wing of the one
parent, till the other brings it a fish, when it comes
out, swallows it, swells, preens itself, and goes back to
““seepy-by ” again, like Stella.

CHAPTER XXIV
GROUSE ASPIRATIONS

| RE wind last night was simply awful. Why it

has no effect on the sea I cannot understand, for
it is always calm now. No, there is little beauty in
the sound of the wind here—no mournful sighings, no
weary complainings, no intangible strange sounds, but
a horrible howling and blustering, the whole night
through, like a mere rage,’so that it has not that
soothing quality that it is wont to have in England:
there is no lullaby in it. Bed here is dreadful, partly
on account of its hardness, partly of its narrowness,
partly of its coming-untuckedness, partly because the
wind comes in on both sides, through walls and
clothes, and shares it with one. With all this I lie
in a continual prologue to a play of lumbago, with
wandering pains all about me. Oh for a nice little
cosy, comfy cottage here, with my good old Mrs.
Brodby to cook for me! I could be always out
then. For the outdoor part of it, “this life is most
jolly,” but the indoor part is a weariness, and, with all
he can do, man, in this country and climate, is a
wretched indoor animal. If it were not so, I would
be beetling over the ledges, now, for though moist
and damp, and under a heavy pall of dun-grey cloud,
it is yet not raining, so may pass for a fine day here :
it is not Tahiti. But to get up a fire, to wash, and

190

IN THE SHETLANDS 191

have some sort of breakfast—all in huge discomfort
—takes time. Biscuits and cheese in my pockets
serve me for the day, but rain and mist may drive
me in, and something for a supper one must have.
Oh the time that goes in waste of time, when one has
to cook for one’s self! And the washing first, at inter-
vals—for I leave everything dirty as long as I can,
that is my system—is worse still, much the worst.
I thought, at first, 1 would only use one plate, and
never wash it, but I had to give that up. How I do
hate the washing! Oh, if there are meals in heaven,
and I get there, hope Mrs. Brodby may get there
too |

This morning I heard a great noise of skuas—the
smaller kind—and, coming out, saw a crowd of them
chasing four ravens that were passing over the ness.
I had previously seen them thus mobbing one. The
ravens sometimes uttered an annoyed croak, and gave
a twist round as though to defend themselves, but
whether they were ever seriously attacked or pecked
at I cannot say. The cries of the skuas, on this occa-
sion, were different from their ordinary one, though
the general tone and character was there.

On my island there were no ravens. Either the
pair that bred there two years ago had hatched out
another brood, and they had then all left the island
together, or else, in spite of all Mr. Hoseason’s efforts,
they have been driven away by persecution—perhaps
killed. A general raven battue is now in progress
throughout the Shetlands, every landowner being

192 THE BIRD WATCHER

anxious to exterminate this bird, so interesting both
in itself and through the world of old legend and
superstition that adheres to it, in order that they may
have grouse to bang at over their barren brown moors.
Had these men anything within them that responded
to the real and only charms that these bleak northern
isles they were born in possess, or ever can possess,
except to vulgarians—their wildness, that is to say,
their wild bird-life, and their past—they would care
more for one raven than for a thousand brace of
grouse. They would rejoice and congratulate them-
selves whenever they saw its sable flight, and think its
presence amongst them a point of high superiority
over richer and more fertile lands. They would see,
then, how the gaunt, black bird was in keeping and
harmony with their scathed hills and storm-lashed
coasts, and, seeing and knowing and feeling, they
would seek to keep it amongst them, with every other
wild and waste-haunting thing. But no; instead of
rejoicing they lament. Born to such a heritage, they
would exchange it for a park and a game-preserve if
they could; as they cannot—for the grouse will
have nothing to say to them, it draws the line at the
Orkneys—they will do their best to turn a living
wilderness into a dead one, they will chase away the
only smile that ever sat on the hard-featured face of
their country, take away its youth—for the birds, each
spring, are that—and leave it childless and unchild-
bearing, like a gaunt, hideous, barren old hag. That
is what they will do, these romantic islanders, for the

IN THE SHETLANDS 193

rugged old mother that bore them.’ “Kill, kill, kill,
kill, kill!” is their cry. Down with the raven, the
eagle, the peregrine, gull, skua, cormorant, and let the
soul of the gamekeeper live for ever in the wild
Shetland Islands !

There is something, I verily believe, in a gun and
cartridges, that dries up all poetry in a man’s heart. -
Of all the inventions that this world has ever seen,
I most deplore that of gunpowder—not because it
kills men, but because it kills beasts—and next to that
I deplore railways, which take away all charm from
the country, and kill the ballads and songs of a people.
Would that I had lived before them, in the quiet days
of Gilbert White! It is the absence, I believe, of all
reference to railways in the writings of our grand-
fathers and grandmothers that makes, or helps to make,
them such pleasant reading. Who would care for
_ Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, had he made it by rail ?
and is it not delightful, when reading Miss Austen,
to know that none of those dear little quiet-world
circles, into which, for years, you have had the entrée,
and which have given you a thousand times more
pleasure, through life, than you have derived from
your real acquaintance—is it not delightful to know
that they could none of them run up to town in an
hour or a few minutes, as is the case now? How
nice it is to have Highbury, through the whole of
Emma, a quiet, untownified little place, and to know

1 Not all, of course. To Mr. Lawrence Edmondston, of Unst, and to Mr.
Hoseason, of Yell, all lovers of birds and wild nature are greatly indebted.

O

194 THE BIRD WATCHER

that it was not till long afterwards that it became
absorbed into London, like the village that you once
used to live in. Considerations of this kind add
a charm, I really do believe, even to the character-
drawing of Jane Austen. We are not so lucky with
the other—the gunpowder. It is always, I confess,
a little unpleasant to me to find Mr. Bennet going
pheasant-shooting. I always wish he hadn’t, such
an esprit fin as he is. Bingley—or even Darcie—but
I can’t see Mr. Bennet pheasant-shooting. However,
those were not the days of battues, and he would
have worn knee-breeches, not knickerbockers.

Ravens, however, are very wary, and I hope may
be able to hold their own in this their last stronghold
of the British Isles, in spite of all the efforts of their
unworthy and little-souled persecutors. Things seem
to me to go very strangely in this world, and only
satisfactorily to the optimist. In the days when
Britain was full of birds and animals, before there
were railways or breechloaders, before there was a
large population, before the fens were drained or the
broads crowded, in those days there were no naturalists,
and now that there are naturalists the materials for
natural history have disappeared, or are fast disappear-
ing. Railways, towns, factories, golf-links, breech-
loading guns, quietude banished, solitude overrun—
all is over, and the real naturalist is not a man for this
world. But regrets are useless, so let me on to the
affairs of state.

Along the opposite shores of the bay that skirts this

IN THE SHETLANDS 195

hill on one side, a raven or two are generally to be
seen; and I once saw one, whilst flying at some
height, make an odd sort of manceuvre, the meaning
of which I did not quite catch. It appeared to me,
however, that he brought his foot forward towards
his bill, and, at the same time, disgorged something,
which he caught hold of with it. A second or two
afterwards, as he came back into his natural pose,
I thought I just saw something fall from him, like
a faint shadow on the air, and almost instantly dis-
appear. This raven had not been carrying anything in
his bill before—at least, I believe not, for nothing
broke the clear outline of it against the sky. What
I believe he did was to bring up one of those curious
pellets of indigestible materials that birds, generally,
are in the habit of disgorging. But who would have
thought that he would have first taken it into his
claws, whilst flying, before letting it drop? But
though I cannot be quite certain, yet I fee/ certain that
this is what he did do.

Herrings are still scattered over that part of the
ness where the great skua breeds, and still they are
headless, as I noticed the first time I came here, and
have recorded in my Bird Watching. Out of twenty-
four, for instance, that I have counted, all but three
of them are in this condition. With the exception of
the head but little of them has been eaten, and, of
some, not any. Whether it is the old bird that eats
the head only, before bringing the fish to the chick,
or whether the chick helps to eat it, or whether it is

196 THE BIRD WATCHER:

eaten at all, I cannot say ; but I have noticed that the
guillemot, also, sometimes brings in a sand-eel to the
ledges, that has been neatly decapitated. I can quite
understand that the head of a herring, if swallowed by
a greedy young chick, might have a bad effect on it,
but that the old birds, through some process of
natural selection—-for we cannot suppose that they
are impelled by ordinary foresight—should have
acquired the habit of first decapitating the herrings
and thus removing the risk, seems very unlikely. On
the other hand, that they should eat one particular
part, and no other, of each fish that they bring to
their young, is almost as difficult to believe. I have
elsewhere suggested another explanation,’ but this
too I find it difficult to adopt, and the only remaining
one I can think of is that the gulls who catch these
herrings, and who are robbed of them by the skua,
either bite off their heads in order to kill them, or eat
the head separately. Whatever the reason of it may
be, I once more draw attention to the fact.

At the tail, so to speak, of this track of herrings,
I find another young great skua, and sit down by him
to make my entry. He is a big chick, but the fluff
still remains upon his head, neck, and under surface,
springing from the ends of the true feathers, which
have thus gradually pushed it out. On the back it is
almost gone, thin patches of it only appearing above
a thick brown panoply of the mature plumage. This
chick is of milder mood than either of the other two.

1 Bird Watching, p. 117.

IN THE SHETLANDS 197

He lets me stroke him, and though, when I approach
my finger to his face, he opens his beak, yet he cannot
be said to show much fierceness. The father and
mother sail overhead, and once the chick reaches up
with its neck stretched straight into the air, and open-
ing its mandibles widely and excitedly, utters a thin
little sound. This is to the parents, I feel sure—a cry
of distress—-and has no reference to me, unless it be to
calla rescue. It seems like this, certainly, yet neither
of them make, for some time, even a pretence of
swooping at me. Now, however, they begin, but
always swerve off when some yards away. Mean-
while the chick has run off; but when I follow him
I find him just as he was before, crouched against
a little bank of heather, with his head pressed some-
what into it. It is curious how he now, a second
time, lets me stroke him, without in the least
moving.

This instinct of crouching and lying still when young
is one which both the skuas here share with terns,
gulls, peewits, etc. All of them lie in a very marked
attitude, with the head and neck stretched straight
out along the ground; yet all of them, as soon as they
learn to fly, quite give up this habit. The stone-
curlew, however, which, when young, has a precisely
similar one, is supposed to keep it through life, but
though this may be the case, 1 am convinced, from
my own observation, that the grown bird acts in this
manner far less frequently. To run with great swift-
ness, and then, if they think it worth while, to fly, is

198 THE BIRD WATCHER

their common practice when approached—I, at least,
have found it so—whilst the young ones, according
to Dr. Bowdler Sharpe, as invariably crouch. The
question is if the latter, when of a respectable size,
are not sometimes mistaken for the fully-grown birds,
for certainly none of these have ever allowed me to
come close up to them as they lay crouched, like
a pheasant, revealing their presence, at last, only by
the bright golden eye, as they are said to do. It 1s
this element of confusion, in my opinion, together
with the fact that it is “a ratite bird,’ and therefore
ought to act like one, which has caused that strange
scientific delusion in regard to the domestic habits of
the ostrich ; a delusion which, it seems, is destined to
endure till some one or other of the learned persons
responsible for it happens to be living on an ostrich-
farm, instead of in a museum or a class-room, since
the statements of those who have, or have had, that
advantage are not regarded by them. No, no! the
ostrich is ‘‘a ratite bird,” and the scientific exigencies
of such a position require it to do what it doesn’t
do. In regard to the above crouching habit, it may
conceivably relate to an antecedent period in the life
of the various species which, in their young days,
practise it, during which they may have been flightless,
though perhaps at a still earlier period they flew as
well as, or better than, they do now. Doubtless, the
ostrich once flew—so much of truth is contained in
the Arab fable—and were any gradual change in the
character of the countries it inhabits to render swift
running less practicable whilst, at the same time, its

IN THE SHETLANDS 199

growth became stunted, it would be almost certain to
fly again.

Young kittiwakes—as no doubt the old ones, too,
though I have not yet noticed them doing so—bathe,
or rather play about in the sea, very prettily. They
flap their wings in an excited way, or hold them
spread on the water whilst turning round, or half
round in it, then, with their wings still spread, they
make a little spring upwards, and flop down on it
again, like a kite falling flat, and repeat the perform-
ance any number of times. There are staider intervals
during which they duck and sprinkle themselves in
the ordinary way, but this is not such a prominent
feature as the other. I doubt if these little round-
abouts, which seem to please the bird so much, are
really in the nature of bathing, and the same doubt
has been still more strongly impressed upon me in the
case of the shag, and, to some extent, of the coot.
To me it seems that the so-called bathing of many
aquatic birds much more resembles an antic than
movements made for a definite purpose—or rather
I suspect that the one thing is in process of passing
into the other.

The passage, as I believe, might take place in this
way. A land-bird bathes in water with the express
object of cleaning itself, and therefore the energy
which it expends in so doing is both guided and
regulated. It is confined within a certain channel,
which it does not leave. But when this same bird
takes to the water—for I assume all aquatic birds to

200 THE BIRD WATCHER

have been land-birds once— bathing, as a special
activity, is not so necessary to it there as it was on
the land. Being always in the bath, it needs not to
specially bathe, or, always bathing, it wants no special
bath. It finds itself, however, with an inherited habit
which it is impelled to continue ; but as the constant
sensation of being in the water weakens the desire, as
the fact of being there does the necessity, for special
ablutions, this energy becomes gradually less governed,
and its direction less fixed. The movements being
no longer limited to the purpose in which they origi-
nated, or exclusively shaped by it, grow more violent,
and corporeal activity producing mental excitement,
which again reacts upon the former, this violence tends
to increase. The result is a mad sort of romp, or
play, more or less boisterous in proportion to the
greater or less vitality of the bird, or its quieter or
livelier disposition, which perhaps is the same thing ;
and when we have this we have what, in bird life, is
called an antic. To generalise it, this antic will be
due to the continuance of an energy once directed to
a special purpose, but which is now no longer so, or
not exclusively ; and this, I believe, has been one of
the principal paths along which antics have been
evolved.

I can, I think, see another reason why the bathing
of aquatic birds has passed, as I believe it has in
several instances, into an antic or something partaking
of that character. They bathe in their own element—
water—in which they are thoroughly at home, whilst

IN THE SHETLANDS 201

the wide expanse of it around them allows of free
and extended movement. But when a land-bird
washes itself it does so under very different condi-
tions, and a more or less lively tubbing is the utmost
one would expect it to evolve out of the situation.
Anything more than this would probably go hand-in-
hand with an increased liking for the water, that is to
say with a gradual change of habitat. Some, perhaps,
may think that the fact which I am trying to account
for has not yet been made out, but I beg these, if they
have not already done so, to watch shags bathing, and
then I think they will say that it has. I have already
described it in the work to which | so often have to
allude,’ but any mere description must be weak com-
pared with the reality.

Numbers of young kittiwakes are still on the ledges ;
they look quite mature, and much like some pretty
species of dove. Many are on the nests and close
beside the parent birds, though sometimes, but not —
often, the latter seem impatient of their presence and
force them to take flight. Anywhere else than on the
ledges the young seem to keep to themselves, swim-
ming together in large flocks upon the sea, or standing
so on the rocks. One may sometimes see an old bird
amongst them, but the association is half-hearted, nor
does it last long. Of the fulmar petrels I have nothing
more to record except that my statement in regard to
the hen bird not permitting her husband to sit with
her by the chick was incorrect, or, at least, needs quali-

1 Bird Watching, pp. 170-1.

2O2 THE BIRD WATCHER

fication, as I have now seen several such family parties. ,
The grown birds continue, in some cases, to swell the
throat and open the beak at one another, rolling, at
the same time, the head, and uttering the hoarse, scold-
ing note which seems reserved for the ledges—for |
have never heard it in the air.

CRUMPINER OF
UNORTHODOX ATTITUDES
VW HEN I saw eider-ducks eating seaweed. off the

coast of my island I was aware that they were
doing something which they had no business to be
doing ; for it is stated in works of authority that
they are purely animal feeders. I have had mis-
givings, therefore, ever since making the observation,
but now, having seen a black guillemot also eating a
piece of this same brown seaweed, I feel more com-
fortable about it, for surely this bird should be as
exclusively a fish-eater as the eider-duck is supposed
to be a devourer of shell-fish, crustaceans, etc. It
was certainly, I think, a piece of this seaweed—short,
brown, bunchy, and covered with little lobes—that
this particular bird had in its bill. Through the
glasses I could see it distinctly, and most distinctly it
swallowed it. I doubt myself if there is any bird
that feeds exclusively on anything, or that is abso-
lutely confined to an animal or vegetable diet. They
seem ever ready to enlarge their experience according
to their opportunities of doing so, thus illustrating
one of Darwin’s most pregnant remarks.
When this ‘‘tysty”’ dived it presented a beautiful
appearance under the water, owing to the snow-white
patches on its wing-coverts, which flashed out dis-

203

204 THE BIRD WATCHER

tinguishably for some time. Besides this—whether
or not this had anything to do with it—it became all
at once of a lovely glaucous green colour, luminous,
and with bubbles flashing about it. Gradually the
form became lost, but the luminous green was never
lost, and after becoming dimmer and dimmer began
to get brighter and brighter again, till the bird re-
appeared out of it on the surface at some distance
off. It seems just possible that this effect may be due
in some measure to the white patches, since when the
shag dives nothing of the sort, or, at any rate, nothing
so marked, is to be seen, nor do I remember noticing
it either in the guillemot, razorbill, or puffin, which
are all dark above and only white underneath. On
second thoughts, however, the colouring can have
little or nothing to do with it, since the effect 1s very
marked in the eider-duck of both sexes, and the
female is uniformly dark. But how is the effect
produced ? by the clinging of innumerable small air-
bubbles to the bird’s plumage? If so, they may not
cling equally to that of all species. The seal presented
the finest appearance of all, but his size may perhaps
have had something to do with this. Whatever may
be the cause, I do not remember to have remarked
the same thing in river-birds when diving. It 1s
more difficult, indeed, to follow them under water
when they dive, on account of the absence of cliffs
to look down from. Still, one sees them sometimes,
and, as I say, I do not remember noticing this
luminous effect, so that it must be, at any rate,

IN THE SHETLANDS 205

much less striking. I have seen the same thing with
a shark at sea.

This morning the ravens again flew over the ness,
going the other way, however, and I only saw three
of them. As before, it was the skuas who informed
me of this, but, in spite of their shrieking, they did
not seem to meddle much with the grim, black birds.
Though there is an impressiveness about the raven’s
whole appearance which, with the knowledge of what
it is, sets the imagination working, yet there is noth-
ing majestic in its actual flight, and these three, with
their measured, laboured flappings, offer a clumsy
contrast to the arrow-like grace of the skuas.

The chick is still upon the ledge, so I have still
a chance of seeing him leave it; but even with two
plaids, on one of which I lie and in the other wrap
myself, like an embalmed mummy, it 1s cold work
waiting—and still more when one has the lumbago.
I was awakened early this morning by nasty pains,
more right on the hip—the very bone of it—than in
the true lumbagoey region ; but it plays right lum-
bago music—‘’tis enough, ’twill serve.” This comes
of lying on the rocks for six hours at a time in a
Shetland summer. I was a fool, I think, to come
here; but is there any one who is not, either in think-
ing or acting at any time icz bas ?

When we are born we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools.

Now I have the lumbago, with very little for it, and
had I not come here I should be regretting the loss of

206 THE BIRD WATCHER

ten times as much as I have found, with no thought
of the lumbago thereby avoided. Thus each way
would have had its own particular foolery ; and which
way has not? Does not this apply to much greater
matters, and often where there might seem to be no
doubt as to where the foolery lay? The way of sin,
for instance, that leads to remorse, has always been
thought a foolish way, and that of virtue and clear
conscience a wise one. Nevertheless, he who goes
the first gains such knowledge by experience as can
never be acquired in any other way, and is therefore
to this extent the superior of the other unless he has
already gained it, either in a life before this or in
some other manner. If he has not, it seems probable
that he will have to do so at one time or another, by
the laws of development—assuming that personal life
and personal development survive the thing called
death. Who, then, if we make these assumptions,
stands the better off, he who has learnt a great truth
through his sinning, or he who, often owing to
circumstances merely, has neither the sin nor the
truth? Quite possibly, as it seems to me, the former ;
for what do we really know except through our own
actual experience? What a dream must this life soon
become to us if we are born, through death, into
another one widely different fom it! and seeing what
death does to this body of ours, how can it be other
than widely different? If, therefore, we could pass
from life to life, or rather from stage to stage of
life, keeping the knowledge gained in each to help us

IN THE SHETLANDS 207

in the next, such knowledge, however bitterly, or, as
we call it, evilly gained, would be really all in all
good. The gain would be eternal and the pain
transient as well as necessary. We may suppose, too,
that 1t would become an ever-lessening quantity, as
“John Brown went marching on.” But somewhere
and somehow all deep, essential knowledge—-as the
knowledge of good and evil—must, | believe, be
individually gained if the individual is to advance.
Innocence, though so highly recommended, is really
a very trumpery thing.

That the path of individual advance should be
through evil to good seems, in itself, likely, since it
has been that of the race, and, moreover, what other
can be imagined? Perhaps, however, it should rather
be said to be through ignorance to knowledge. Evil
is a misleading word. We speak of it as though it
were something fixed and unchangeable, whereas there
is no thing, however evil it may be in one set of cir-
cumstances, that may not be good inanother. Murder,
for instance, is good amongst bees, and sometimes also
—so statesmen who make wars must think—amongst
ourselves. Knowledge of good and evil consequently
is knowledge of conditions ; and how can one learn the
conditions of anything better than by acting in dis-
accord with them? Putting aside, therefore, the
question of inherited experience—another perplexing
element in this perplexing problem—is it not possible
that sometimes, at any rate, a sinner may be in a state
of advance whilst a virtuous person is stagnating

208 THE BIRD WATCHER

merely, or that the former at any rate—for most
virtuous persons sin pettily—-may be advancing more
quickly than the latter? I feel sure of it myself.
“* My dukedom,” however (if I had one), “to a beg-
gatly denier,” that said virtuous person would think
very differently—which makes him, perchance, just a
little more but one of the “fools” on “this great
stage,’ where there are so many.

It might well be argued, I think—at any rate, I
have seen many such arguments—that Shakespeare, in
the lines I have quoted, intended to convey all this, in
which case I have his great authority to shelter under.
Goethe, however—at least, I am told so —supports me,
if not more plainly, yet more categorically. He
thought—or somebody, perhaps Eckermann, thought
he thought—that we became good by sinning out our
evil, and that evil still in us, in the shape of desire,
was like prurient matter which ought to be discharged,
and, at some time, would have to be, to the conse-
quent benefit of the constitution. Given, as I say, a
continuance of life and advance—I cannot, for myself,
imagine the one without the other—there seems to me
much force in this doctrine, and I commend it—as
that sort of physic which Lady Macbeth so much
needed—to the members of any cabinet that has made
any war, and to politicians and millionaires generally,
and to South African millionaires in particular.

All this must be the effect of lumbago, which 1s the
effect of the Shetlands ; but let me shake it off. The
chick has been fed once, but 1 was taken by surprise,

IN THE SHETLANDS 209

and almost missed it. Now, at only a quarter of an
hour’s interval, he is fed again, and over this there is
quite an interesting little scene. The chick, when a
very substantial fish is brought in for him, is asleep
under his mother’s wing, and both parents seem averse
to disturbing him. The plain one with the fish
seems quite embarrassed. He approaches, stands
still, looks at his partner as if for advice, shuffles
about, turns this way and that, and several times,
bending his head, gives a choked and muffled jode/,
for his mouth is almost too full to speak. Still the
chick sleeps on and still the parents seem to doubt
the advisability of waking him. At length, however,
they admit it to be necessary. The father shuffles up
into his usual position, the mother rises by slow and
reluctant stages, as though apologetically, and finally
stirs the chick several times with her bill till at last he
rouses. Then, in a moment, he brisks up, and,
seizing the large fish, swallows it in one good whole-
hearted gulp. Perhaps there may have been a second,
but it was a weak one if there was, and hardly neces-
sary. It was more like the grace after the meal, that
can very well be dispensed with. Instantly then the
father, having done his business, flies off, the mother
sinks down, and the chick, retiring with the taste of
the fish still in his mouth, there is peace on the ledge
again. The eye of the guillemot is very bright, and
seems to beam with intelligence. No bird, I believe,
ever looked more intelligent, albeit embarrassed, than

the one just gone as he stood with the fish in his bill
P

210 THE BIRD WATCHER

waiting for the chick to wake up. He, it will be re- —

membered, was the plain bird; and such are very
greatly in the majority. The white mark round the
eye impairs this look of intelligence. It is lost in
strangeness, and the bird so adorned has something
the appearance of one of those queer kind of demons
that one sees in Japanese drawings. The eye itself is
black.

The chick, therefore, has had two good fish—one a
particularly large one—within twenty minutes. There
is now an interval of near three hours, and then the
father flies in again with yet another fish—a very
long sand-eel it looks like, even bigger than the last—
and the chick seizing it as it is let drop, before it
touches the ledge, it disappears by a process which
looks like magic. They are like little bag-purses,
these guillemot chicks, and when they are full of
money—z.e. fishes—it is difficult to think that there is
room for anything more inside them—anatomy seems
out of the question. Just before this, this particular
one has lain in the queerest way under his mother’s
wing, flat upon the rock, with his legs stretched
straight out behind him as one sometimes sees dogs
lie. He has lain like this several times altogether,
but never for long at a time. Now, after his surfeit,
he has retired again. By the way, the inside of the
little chick’s mouth is pinky-flesh-coloured merely,
whereas that of the old bird is of a fine lemon.
Why should we, in so many species, find this difference
in coloration between young and old in such a region

IN THE SHETLANDS DN

—the mature tint being, in all of them, so vivid and
so often exposed—unless sexual selection has been the
operating cause? We would not, I suppose, find a
corresponding difference in the colour of the internal
organs, according to the age of the bird.

The mother guillemot, now, for the first time
whilst I have been here, utters that guttural, yet
sharp “ik, ik, ik,’ note, which, two years ago, in
June and early July, was the only one I ever heard
on the ledge I watched so closely. When another
fish is brought in there is some more of it, mixed
with the jode/-ing; so that it seems now to be becom-
ing more frequent. But never have I been able to
make out with anything like clearness that the chick
has uttered any note at all. No undoubted> sound
from it has reached me, The time before last that it
was fed, however, I thought I heard a sharp little cry,
but it was impossible to be sure whether this was
from the chick or some of the thronging and clamour-
ing kittiwakes perched and flying all about. In any
case, it was nothing particular.

On the ledge, where there were fifteen birds yester-
day, there are now only eight; on my ledge, which
from here I see in its entirety, only the mother and
chick, another bird—not the father—having just
flown off. On all the others together I make out
only thirty-six. I see but one other chick, but a bird
is sitting as if she might have one under her. No-
thing can be plainer than that the old birds have
stayed behind on the ledges after the young ones

DD THE BIRD WATCHER

have left them, though whether the latter went by
themselves or were conducted by their parents, who
afterwards returned, I cannot tell. As the ledges,
when I first came, were thick with guillemots, and as
both sexes were represented, there being still a con-
siderable amount of coquetry and dalliance, carried
sometimes to an extreme length, there 1s no room
for the hypothesis that the great majority had gone
with their chicks, leaving only a few, who, for some
reason, had not reared one. Had I got here to-day
only I might have thought this, but, as it 1s, I should
rather think that, full as the ledges were on my
arrival, they were fuller still a few days earlier, and
that the proportion of chicks was not much greater.
The statement, therefore, which 1s made in works of
authority, that, at the end of the breeding season, the
young and old guillemots go off together for good,
seems not to be in accordance with the facts of the
case. Certainly it does not apply to the state of
things here, in this particular year.

The chick is again stretched out quite flat on the
rock with its legs behind it, looking most funny.
Well, funny as you are, I must leave you for a little,
for I’ve the cramp, as well as lumbago, so

I am gone, sir, and anon, sir,
I will be with you again.

And I am back at about seven, and find my little
Sir still on the ledge, clasped by his mother’s wing.
I almost expected he would be gone, but have still a

IN THE SHETLANDS DI

chance now to see the flight down—if it should not
take place in the night—a parlous fear. I was away
for some four hours, and during this time had a splen-
did sight of seals. Quite near to where I watch the
guillemots there is a little iron-bound creek or cove,
walled by the precipice, guarded by mighty “stacks,”
and divided for some way into two by a long rocky
peninsula running out from the shore. On the rocks
in one of these alcoves were lying eight seals, which
were afterwards joined by another, making nine,
whilst in the adjoining one were four—also, as it
happened, joined by another whilst | watched—mak-
ing fourteen in all: such a sight as I had never seen
before, except something like it as the steamboat
passed a small rocky islet on my way to Gutcher.
Here lay, indeed, some nine or ten seals ; but oh, the
difference in the conditions! The horrid, vulgar
steamboat, with the whistle blowing to frighten them ;
the men, the women, the remarks—a stick pointed
gunwise—oh, dear! Oh, the difference, the differ-
ence! ‘They were soon all in the water and, with their
little oasis, left far behind. The sooner the better.
Worse than ‘‘crabbed age and youth” “together” is
wild nature seen from amidst vulgar surroundings, in
vulgar company—like a drive through paradise with
the Eltons “Sin the barouche-landau.” But here—ah,
here it is different. Not one human being save
myself (and one excuses oneself), no tiresome prosaic
figure— godlike erect ’’—to break the sky-line above
the mighty towering precipice that rises just behind

214 THE BIRD WATCHER

this dark, still, frowning bay. I can gloat on what I
see here.

I watched these seals of mine on this, my first
meeting with them, for a considerable time from the
top of the cliffs—the glasses giving me a splendid
view—and soon knew more about them than I had
before, and got rid of some popular errors. For
instance, I had always imagined that seals had one set
attitude for lying on the rocks—viz. flat on their
bellies—-a delusion which every picture of them in
this connection had helped to foster. Imagine my
surprise and delight when it burst upon me that only
some three or four were in this attitude, and that
even these did not retain it for long. No; instead of
being in this state of uninteresting orthodoxy, they
lay in the most delightful free-thinking poses, on
their sides, or much more than on their sides, showing ~
their fine portly columnar bellies in varying degrees
and proportions, whilst one utter infidel was right
and full upon his broad back—yet looked like the
carved image of some old crusader on the lid of his
stone sarcophagus. Then every now and again they
would give themselves a hitch, and bring their heads
up, showing their fine round foreheads’ and large
mild eyes; a very human—mildly human—and
extremely intelligent appearance they had, looking
down upon them from above. Again, they had the
oddest or oddest-appearing actions, especially that —
of pressing their two hind feet or flippers together,
with all their five webbed toes spread out in a fan,

IN THE SHETLANDS ars

with an energy and in a manner which suggested the
fervent clasping of hands. Then they would scratch
themselves with their fore feet lazily and sedately,
raising their heads the while, looking extremely happy,
having sometimes even a beatific expression. And
then again they would curl themselves a little and
roll more over, seeming to expatiate and almost lose
themselves in large luxurious ease—more variety and
expression about them lying thus dozing than one
will see in many animals awake and active.

Even in this little time I learnt that they were
animals of a finely touched spirit, extremely playful,
with a grand sense of humour and—once again—
filled ‘from the crown to the toe, top-full” of happi-
ness. Thus one that came swimming up the little
quiet bay, in quest of a rock to lie upon, seemed to
delight in pretending to find first one and then another
too steep and difficult to get up on to (for obviously
they were not) and would fling himself off from them
in a sort of little sham disappointment, gambolling
and rolling about, twisting himself up with seaweed,
and, generally, having a most lively solitary romp.
A piece of bleached spar, some four or five feet long,
happened—and I am glad that it happened—to be
floating in the water at quite the other side of the
creek, and, espying it, this delightful animal swam
over to it and began to play with it as a kitten might
with a reel of cotton or a ball of worsted. More:
frolicsome, kitten-hearted, and withal intelligent play
I never saw. He passed just underneath it, and, coming

216 THE BIRD WATCHER

up on the opposite side, rolled over upon it, cuffed it
with one fore-foot, again with the other, flipped it, then,
with his footy tail as he dived away, and returning, in
a fresh burst of rompiness, waltzed round and round
with it, embracing it one might almost say. At last,
going off, he swam to a much steeper rock than any he
had made believe to find so difficult, and, scrambling up
it with uncouth ease, went quietly to sleep in the best
possible humour.

What intelligence all this shows! Much more,
I think, than the sporting of two animals together.
This seal was alone, saw the spar floating at a distance,
and swam to it with the evident intention of amusing
himself in this manner. That spar may be a piece of
a shipwreck, may have floated out of the crash and
confusion of human agony, hands may have grasped
it, arms clung around it, to be washed off, stiffened in
death. Now, in these silent dream-pools of the sea’s
oblivion, it is played with by a happy animal. And
of all those influences that cling about a thing life-
touched, and tell their several tales to the clairvoyant,
I would choose to feel and breathe this last.

Later, another seal played with this same spar in
much the same way; yet both of them seemed to be
quite full-grown animals. Then I saw something
which looked like a spirit of real humour, as well as
fun. Three seals were lying on a slab of rock to-
gether, and one of them, raising himself half up,
began to scratch the one next him with his fore-foot.
The scratched seal—a lady, I believe—took it in the

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IN THE SHETLANDS 217

most funny manner—a sort of serio-comic remon-
strance, shown in action and expression. ‘‘ Now do
leave off, really. Come now, do leave me alone ’’—
and when this had reached a climax the funny fellow
left off and lay still again; but as soon as all was
quiet, he heaved up and began to scratch her again.
This he did—and she did the other—three times, at
the least, and if not to have a little fun with her I can
hardly ‘see why.

On my last return from the guillemots, the tide
was rising, and most of the rocks where the seals
had been lying were covered. I was in time, how-
ever, to see one—an immense parti-coloured seal-—
gradually floated off. He lay upon a great mass of
seaweed, and as long as he could stay there, he did ;
but little by little, as the waves came in, he rose un-
willingly, seeming to cling to it to the last. Whether
he really did grasp the seaweed with his hind feet,
and stay, thus anchored, as long as he possibly could,
I cannot say; but certainly, for a good many minutes,
and keeping in much the same place, he stood, or
rather floated, perpendicularly in the water, even in-
cluding his head, so that his nose, which projected
just a little above the surface, pointed straight up into
the air. This was, at once, seen to be the case when
he brought it down and stood with head in the usual
position, as he did at intervals. Finally, he rolled
slowly over and sought the depths in a vanishing
blue streak. Another seal clung, in like manner, to
the smooth rock he was on, letting the rising waves
wash him about till at last he swam off.

CHAPTER XxXVI
PIED PIPERS

| HAVE just seen a sea-pie several times pull and

tweak with his bill at the seaweed, apparently, till
he secured something that had a white appearance.
Holding this between the extreme tip of his man-
dibles, he each time retired up the rock with it, placed
it, as it seemed to me, amidst some seaweed, and then
ate it. This was looking down upon a great stack of
rock at some distance, so that it was impossible to be
certain in regard to such minutie. It seemed to me,
as it has seemed before, that he had pulled, not hit,
some small limpet or other shell-fish from off the sea-
weed, and then wedged it amidst other seaweed higher
up so as to be able to pick out the inside more easily.
Possibly, however, he merely laid it down without
wedging it, but I cannot tell, and it is very difficult
to get close enough to see just what these birds
really do when they feed. On the grass, which they
probe like starlings, one can get a pretty good sight
of their actions, but not on the seashore. One thing
I cannot help noticing, that whereas limpets are all
about on the rocks and need no looking for, they walk
about as if they were looking for something, and they
leave the bare rock that is all stuck over with them
for the parts that are covered with seaweed, and at

218

IN THE SHETLANDS 219

this they pull and tweak. In spite, therefore, of the
peculiar wedge-like bill with its obtuse tip that seems
so well adapted for striking a limpet or other shell-
fish with a sudden blow from the rock to which it had
been clinging, I am beginning to doubt whether they
often use it in this way, and especially whether limpets
are a special food of theirs. I remember, however,
once seeing a sea-pie make just the sort of blow re-
quired on the theory, but ineffectively, and in a
peculiar half-hearted way, as a man might feebly
clench his fist and strike in his sleep. It is curious
that this trivial action, which seemed to be of an
involuntary nature, made under a misapprehension
discovered in time to check, but not to stop, the blow,
has remained in my memory with a strange persistence
and vividness, and on the strength of it I still think
that limpets are sometimes struck from the rock in
this way. There must, I think, have been something
very specialised in the movement of the head and
bill, slight as it was, to make me retain it so long in
my mind’s eye.

Afterwards I watched several of these birds feeding
on the rocks, and | distinctly saw one with his beak
amongst a bed of the same small blue mussels that I
have seen the eider-ducks feeding on, picking and
pulling at them in much the same way. Others, like
the first one, pulled at the brown, or black, seaweed
with which the rocks are plentifully hung. They ran
down upon it when the sea receded, and back, or else
jumped into the air or flew to another rock, when it

220 THE BIRD WATCHER

foamed in again. The sea boils in about the rocks off
these iron shores in a tremendous manner, even when,
like to-day, it is quite calm. On the stillest day,
indeed, there is often a sullen swell which makes
varying patches and long chequered lines of foam all
around them. The sea never sleeps in these islands—
only slumbers uneasily like some terrific monster that
anything may awake.

It is observable that some of these sea-pies are
bolder than others in outstanding the swell of the
waves. Some flee it before it comes, others fear not
to have it wet their feet, whilst others, again, will
almost risk being soused init. But are these different
birds, or are they all different at different times? On
that, of course, must depend whether a process of
differentiation, on evolutionary lines, is in action
amongst them or not. For myself, I think the first,
and that, from waders or paddlers, some of these birds
may in time become swimmers—which would make
them a sort of sea moorhen. The redshanks has
gone farther in this direction, for he sometimes swims,
but I know of no intermediate form, no sea and sea-
shore bird corresponding to our moorhen or coot.—
Mussels, then, and the beak thrust in amongst sea-
weed; but no limpets up to the present. Now
limpets, as I said before, are all over the rocks, and
so need no searching for. Why so chary, then, if the
birds really affect them?

What ails ye at the puddin’-broo
That boils into the pan, O?

IN THE SHETLANDS 221

Under favourable circumstances—solitude and non-
molestation are, no doubt, the most favourable —
oyster-catchers leave the foreshore, and browse, in
flocks, over the grass-land beyond it. There are now,
for instance, twenty-one, at the least, browsing, and
I have watched them for some time digging their
beaks well into the soil—to half their length, perhaps,
sometimes—and then tugging violently at something.
What this was, however, I could not, in any case,
make out. It appeared to be taken into the beak
before the latter was withdrawn. At last, however—
for I like to see it all through the glasses, if I can
—TI went to the place, and, going down on my hands
and knees, commenced a minute investigation. All
about were round, straight holes going down through
the grass into the turf, like those on a lawn after
starlings have searched it, but, of course, larger.
With my knife I cut down into several of these, and
in two or three I found a small worm quite near the
surface of the soil. It seemed as though the bird’s
bill had passed it in looking for or aiming at another
one deeper down. Be this as it may, worms, it seems
likely, form a common food of the sea-pie, for what
else could these ones have been searching for?
Worms, however, must be taken to include grubs,
caterpillars, and so forth, an ordinary land diet, in
fact, and did these birds get to preferring it, their
habits would rapidly change. These, I should think,
must a good deal depend upon locality, and perhaps,
too, on their numbers, for birds become bolder when

222 THE BIRD WATCHER |

they go many together. Even here the sea-pie is
wary, and in a more populous place I doubt if any-
thing would tempt him inland. Yet it is curious that
in an island where I have been the one inhabitant
I have never seen these birds feeding or walking any-
where except on the tidal shore, quite near the sea,
though they often flew over the island, whereas here,
in Unst, I have seen them thus searching the green-
sward in the neighbourhood of Burra Firth, which 1s
a village, though a small one. But then they are
much more numerous here, and it was always in the
close neighbourhood of the beach, even when not
upon it, that I saw them. In this last instance, too,
they were no distance at all from the sea—but again,
most of the smooth, turfy stretches, where it would |
be easy to find worms, are so situated. Here, then, is
another path along which differentiation might pro-
ceed, and by which, in time, an oyster-catcher might
become a bird with the habits of the great plover. It
is curious that one of the cries of the latter bird in
the spring, though very much weaker, is a good deal
like the “ ki-vick, ki-vick, ki-vick, ki-vick, ki-vick!”
of the sea-pie, so that the one rendering might stand
for both.

It is pleasarit to see a fair-sized flock of these birds
gathered together on a smooth stretch of sand just
above the line of the waves. Some walk about or stop
to preen themselves, others lie all along, whilst a few
stand motionless upon one leg, fast asleep, with the

head turned and the red bill hidden amongst the pied

IN THE SHETLANDS 223

plumage. Sometimes, when excited, or about to fly,
they will run, for a little, over the sand, holding the
wings elevated above the back, which has a quaint yet
graceful appearance. They keep together, generally,
in a group or series of groups, but at other times
stand in a long row amidst or but just beyond
“the light sea-foam”’ beating from the waves, looking
as though the sea had cast them up, like a line of
drifted seaweed. Gulls often come down amongst
them, and the two sit or stand, side by side, quite in-
different to one another, each hardly conscious of the
other’s presence—so far, at least, as one can judge.
Besides the piping note I have mentioned, these sea-
pies have others—“ queep, queep!” and a kind of
twittering trill leading up to it—which remind one
strangely of the great plover, and suggest a common
ancestry.

I have confirmed to-day all that I said in Bird
Watching (pp. 90-3) about the love-piping of these
sea-pies. For some reason or other—rivalry, I think,
passing into a form—two birds, that I put down as
males, seem to like to pipe together to one who, by
her quiescence and general deportment, I judge to be
the female. I have seen this twice since coming here,
once yesterday, and now again within these few hours.
This last time it was almost as marked as in the
instances I have described, and towards the end one
of the piping birds showed a tendency to go down on
his shanks, as though kneeling to his lady love. I do
not think he quite did this, but he bent towards it.

DON, THE BIRD WATCHER

Iam convinced myself that the dance of three peewits,
as described by Mr. Hudson in The Naturalist in
La Plata, has had some such origin as this. What
one wants, in order to arrive at the real nature of the
latter, is a number of detailed descriptions, instead of
a mere general one, never in my opinion of much
value in such matters. Pains, also, should be taken
to ascertain the sexes of each of the three birds that
takes a part in the show.

Another nuptial sport or play which these birds in-
dulge in belongs to air—where, indeed, they pipe as
strongly and easily as upon the ground. This that
I speak of, however, appeals in an equal degree to the
eye and ear. Two birds pursue each other closely,
mounting all the while in a steep slant, till, having
gained some elevation, both turn at an acute angle,
and descend in the same manner, in a reversed direc-
tion, thus tracing the shape of a pyramid. Having
completed the air-drawn figure, they immediately re-
produce it, and thus they continue on quickly vibrat-
ing wings—now upwards, far above the cliff-line, now
downwards, almost to the sea—piping the whole time
in the fullest-throated way. Even in a small and
sober-suited bird such a performance might attract at-
tention. How much more here where, to the boot of
the large size of the two artistes, and the noise they
make, the boldly contrasted black and white of their
plumage, the deep rose-red of the bill, and pale rose-
pink of the legs, give it a very lovely appearance.
For myself, I have seen few things more striking.

CHAPTER XXVII
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

A MAN here—one accustomed to the sea, but not

a Shetlander—had told me that seals come up on
the rocks as the tide goes out, and are floated off
them as it comes up again—and this, indeed, I have
seen. He did not seem to think that they lay on the
rocks independently of the tides, so, as the tide to-
day should be out about 5.30, I resolved to go to the
same place as yesterday—the accustomed haunt of
seals here—about two, so as to be in good time. I
arrive accordingly, but what is my astonishment to
see, on a vast, sloping slab of rock, ending in a minia-
ture cliff, far above the highest line of moist seaweed,
and comfortably independent of all tides, twelve seals,
of varying figures and different degrees of obesity,
lying, roughly, in two rows, and in all sorts of attitudes
and depths of repose. Whatasight! What beauti-
ful, fat, sleepy things! and what a lovely little secret
creek of the wave-lashed, iron-ribbed coast have they
found to sleep in! How the waters sleep in it, too !
How gently they creep to shores strewn with a wild
confusion of titanic black boulders heaped about still
huger fragments of the cliff’s wastage, so huge, some
of them, that they are dwarfed only by the frowning
precipices that tower behind! How they lick up upon
the brown hanging seaweed that drips against the

Q 225

226 THE BIRD WATCHER
high, dark walls of this their boudoir, falling back

from it again with a deep-sucked gurgle that ravishes
the ear! What a snug sea-chamber, formed and
fashioned by the waves! How the cormorants dive
and fish in it, how the gull tears at the drifted carcase
of its kind, how the puffins, in ceaseless flight between
ocean and their myriad burrows, arch and dome it in!
Oh, it isa fine apartment! Its portals on either side
are columns of spouting foam, and beyond lies the
wild, houseless sea. A seal’s dormitory !—how well
do the wild things choose! So here, at once, one
learns something different to what one is told. Seals
care nothing about tides when they can get great
slanting slabs that lie high and dry above them. At
high tide, or low tide, or middle tide, they are equally
ready to sleep.

I came down the steep descent in a way which
made me and everything I had on, or carried with me
—which was everything I have here to keep me warm
and dry—both wet and dirty. At the bottom there
was a mass of nasty, brown, wet discomfort; but it
had successfully stalked the seals. They lay now
right before me, so near as to make the glasses almost
a superfluity. Yet how splendidly they showed them
up—every mark, turn, and expression, their whiskers,
- wrinkles, and their fine eyes. And now, still more
markedly than yesterday, I note that the favourite
attitude of a seal, when lying asleep or dozing, is
either on its back or half or three-quarters rolled over
towards it. Out of all these twelve, only one lies in

IN THE SHETLANDS 227

the way that all illustrations persist in depicting them
as lying. Three are absolutely on their backs, with
their faces, or rather chins, looking, for long periods,
straight up into the sky ; others are almost as supine,
but, by turning their faces sideways, seem to be less
so, whilst the rest vary between this and full on their
side, in which position they look much like a huge
salmon lying on a fishmonger’s dresser. Who has
ever drawn seals like this? Where is there such
a rendering ? Always, as far as I can remember, they
are made to lie on their stomachs. Yet here is the
living thing.

As various as their attitudes seems to be the
degree of their rest. Some raise their heads and look
to this side or that, at irregular intervals that are not
very long apart. Others seem sunk in deep and
heavy slumber, their very attitudes—or rather,
their attitudes more than anything else—expressing
“‘the rapture of repose that’s there.” Yet even these,
if watched for long enough, are seen occasionally to
raise their heads, or scratch themselves lazily with
their front paws, or expand or interlace their hind
ones, moving them sometimes in a very curious
manner suggesting the rotating screw of a steamer.
It would seem, therefore, that, however fast asleep
they may look, they are really only in a sort of
doze.

Many of these seals are scarred and marked in
a very bad way; raw and bleeding the places are
sometimes, and I notice here and there what looks

228 THE BIRD WATCHER

like a deep and gaping bite. These wounds are
mostly on the belly, but the tail of one seal is bloody
all round, as though another had seized it in its
mouth and severely bitten it. No doubt it is all due
to fighting, and the claws, I think, must have played
as great a part as the teeth. Two other seals lie on a
smaller rock, raised similarly above high-water mark,
and a third on one that has only just become un-
covered. Altogether, then, there are fifteen of them,
making me think of Virgil’s description of the Protean
herds, written in those happy days before the accursed
gun had thinned, as it now has, almost to the verge of
extinction, the brave, honest, animal world. Surely
the lower thing rules on earth for ever. Those who
love living animals, with souls inside them, must see
this world made dead and empty by those who love
only their skins, stuffed with straw. They conquer,
these Philistines, and the finer-touched spirit lies
bleeding and suffering beneath them. How grossly
we deceive ourselves)! ).0) 5 iL) say, thatethemccpale
Galilean ” has mot conquered here, but that Thor has,
though often in his rival’s name.

The modern Christian poet speaks truth as though
it were falsehood, and falsehood as though it were
truth. Hear Longfellow, for instance—

Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it,
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth

Still is it Thor’s-Day !

IN THE SHETLANDS 229

Now that is truth—simple, plain truth. So it is put
into the mouth of Thor—a heathen god—who, of
course, is brought up only to be knocked down, and
what he says confuted. Only through some such
machinery can poets now speak the truth.

These seals differ greatly from one another, both in
size, figure, markings, and colour of the fur, and
especially, as a result of all, in beauty. Most of
them look rough, swollen, dropsical creatures, but
some are very pretty and elegant, and as these are
smaller I suppose them to be the females. Often
one may see a look and action in them that seems to
speak of coquetry and being wooed.

It is curious that the one seal that lies on its face
is the only one out of the twelve that is turned
towards the sea. The sea, however, in this case is
only a narrow inlet between the rock on which it lies
-and the shore, the great expanse of it being entirely
hidden by the rock itself, which rises perpendicularly,
like a cliff, from the highest point of its upward
slope. The seal, therefore, really looks shorewards,
but across a narrow strip of sea. His eyes, I notice,
seem never shut, and at frequent intervals he turns
his head to one side or another. All the rest lie
either sleeping or dozing, though, as said before,
most of them from time to time raise their heads
a little and give a lazy look before sinking back into
slumber. Is the one seal a sentinel? It looks like
it. But why, if this were their custom, should seals
ever sleep singly ? And this they often do.

230 THE BIRD WATCHER

In spite of the shortness of all their four limbs,
yet seals, as they stretch themselves, throw up the
head, bend the neck and back, raise their fore-feet
into the air, or push out the hind ones to their full
length whilst at the same time stretching them apart,
often have a very startling resemblance to a man.
The curves and symmetries of the body—especially
the upper portion of it—are sometimes wonderfully
suggestive of the human torso, and the resemblance
is often helped by the shape of the rock, which, by
curving away from the body, allows the lines of it to
appear. Nothing, in fact, can look both more like
and more unlike a man than do these creatures. See
one lying quiescent, a great, swollen, carrot-shaped
bladder, and one may scoff at the possibility of
any such resemblance ; but wait and watch, and in
a hundred odd ways one will catch it. When a seal
scratches one of his front flippers it is wonderfully
like a man scratching the back of one hand with the |
other. The hind feet can look almost more hand-
like. It is true that when the toes are distended
to their full width the whole foot is just like a fish’s
tail in shape, but when they are not stretched so
widely apart, and those of the one play, as they often
do, with those of the other, then they have a wonder-
ful resemblance to fingers—swollen, gouty fingers,
it is true; gloved, too, they look—but still fingers.

Another interesting sight now in the adjoining
cove, or rather in the adjoining half of this semi-
divided one! A seal comes to its rock there before

IN THE SHETLANDS 231

the tide has sufficiently gone down to let it lie upon
it. It plays about the rock, fawns upon it, caresses
it, woos it, one might say, dives down and circum-
navigates it, tries or pretends to try to lie upon it,
even under the water, swims away and returns, and
does the same thing several times; and as soon as
the water is sufficiently shallow to allow of it, it
reclines, sea-washed and gently heaving, till the
receding tide leaves it high and dry. A pretty thing
it is—very—to see a seal thus waiting for its chosen
rock to appear.

I was at the ledges about twelve, and found my
particular one a blank—not a bird there. Mother
and child—father too, and every other bird besides—
was off ; the cupboard was bare. A bitter disappoint-
ment seized hold upon me, sunk into my very soul.
Yet what else could I have expected? They may
have gone in the night ; and, in any case, how, except
by actually bivouacking above that ledge, could I have
hoped to be there at the exact moment when the
departure took place? This I might have managed,
or at least have managed better, had my little black
sentry-box been a cottage, with some one in it to
cook for me. Then I could have got to bed by eight,
or at least nine, and been up by three or four; but
without this it was impossible. I can do—and I do
do now—with as little as most men, but porridge
here is like charity, and oh, the time that it takes
to make! They talked to me of ten minutes or
a quarter of an hour at the outside, spoke even of

20 THE BIRD WATCHER

boiling milk flung upon the raw meal——said it would
be good like that. ‘‘ Women said so, that will say
anything.” Sweetly they smiled, but they understood
not the conditions. Oh fire that will not burn up!
Oh kettle that will not boil! Oh egg that wll
crack when you drop it in! Oh one spoon that
goeth a-missing! This, and much more “of this
harness,” as the Spaniard says, has kept me up till
ten or later—till eleven, once, when the frying bacon,
‘in the very moment of projection,” was breathed on
by the flame of paraffin. (Nothing but paraffin will
make a fire burn up in the Shetlands, and even that
gets damp sometimes.) So that, having my notes to
extend and decipher, and with hard boards, and the
wind, and a flea or so, and sometimes the lumbago, I
may say, with Comus, almost any night, ‘‘ What has
night to do with sleep?” but without being able to
continue, for certainly it has no “better sweets to
PLOVE.))

But perhaps I should have missed it in any case.
Perhaps—nay, I will be certain of it, to lessen heart-
ache—they went off in the night. To think of it!
that young, tiny creature! And was it then, in the
dark night, when the wind was blowing so furiously,
that you were carried down—a little soft, fluffy, deli-
cate-looking thing—to be put upon the great tumul-
tuous sea? through mist and driving spray, with neither
moon nor stars to light you, to toss, for the first time
in life, on those tumbling, rough-playing waves? I,
a grown man, was glad of all I could heap on my bed

IN THE SHETLANDS 233

to keep the wind away. I lay and thought of ship-
wrecks as I listened to it roaring, but I never thought
of you, flitting out to sea through it all, cradled so
delicately on your mother’s back—if that, indeed, was
the way of it. How could | imagine it? Even to
watch you, as you lay warm on your cold ledge in the
daytime, gave me the lumbago, though wrapped in
two good plaids. But at night, and with nothing round
you, to leave even shat shelter, to cast off from the
sheer, horrid edge “into the empty, vast, and wander-
ing air,” and then souse into yeasty salt water, without
cold or chill taken, without a touch of lumbago—oh,
what an iron constitution! Yow are not the lathe
painted to look like iron; you are feathers in steel-
work, rather, a powder-puff made out of adamant.
But here I register a vow that I will return here, some
day, in the height of the putting-off season, and see
the little guillemots fly from their cliff’s cradle, or ride
down on one cradle to another—their mother’s soft,
warm back, and then

In cradle of the rude, imperious surge.

CHAPTER XXVIII
TAMMY-NORIE-LAND
Se Oe again to-day, and there, upon the

same great slab, and at much the same time, five
great seals are lying, whilst on other rocks there
are six more. The tide is coming in, and one that is
on a low rock goes gradually off with the wash of it.
The others lie on, though now, at high noon, the tide,
I think, must be in. Seals, therefore, do not go off
their rocks at high tide, as a custom, unless the water
leaves them no choice. Of course if they have a
favourite rock which is covered at high tide, they are
then compelled to do so, but in that case they can
seek another one which is not so restricted, and lie
there sleeping, if they will, “the washing of ten
tides.” Their bed-times are not governed by the
ebb and flow of the sea.

The larger seal which I spoke of yesterday is called
here, locally, a bottle-nosed seal, or at least some so
designate it. He is here again to-day, rising at inter-
vals and staring at the sky, in the other of these
two-in-one-contained bays, which seems to be more
particularly his own. When he rises he remains for
a full minute standing upright, as it were, in the
water, with his muzzle about six inches above it and
pointing straight into the sky. Then it sinks for an
instant, and the next his whole head appears above

234

IN THE SHETLANDS 235

the surface, held horizontally. Another moment, and
his back makes a bent bow in the water, as with a
rolling motion, something like that of a porpoise, he
dives and vanishes. He always makes for a great
mass of brown seaweed clothing the rocks, now
covered, where I had first seen him lying, and extend-
ing down into the depths. In this I lose him, but.
whether he stays there or merely coasts along it I
cannot tell ; but he always rises in about the same spot,
and this suggests that he comes each time from the
same place. Seals may, perhaps, lie upon the bottom, .
under the overarching edges of the rocks they bask
on at low water, and wound amongst the seaweed that
grows on them ; but their sleep, if they slept, would
be broken.

I took out my watch and measured the time this
great seal stayed under water, finding it to be, on an
average, from ten to twelve minutes, his longest sub-
mersion being fourteen minutes and a half. I then
thought I would descend the cliffs and get along the
shore to just opposite where he usually came up, which
would be very near him. This I easily managed, con-
cealing myself once, when I knew that he would rise,
and going on again as soon as he was down. When
he next came up I had the satisfaction of beholding
him from some dozen or twenty yards. He was con-
siderably larger than the common seal, his skin per-
fectly naked and of a bluish colour, which, with the
breadth of his back, gave him something the appear-
ance of a hippopotamus in the water. This was when

236 THE BIRD WATCHER

I just got his back, without the head or other parts.
Seen im toto—or as much of him as could be seen—
he more suggested, both by shape and colouring com-
bined, a gigantic mole ; or again, his head, with the
long cylindrical-looking nose, had a very porcine
appearance. But whilst floating upright in the way
I have described, he looked like a buoy merely, of
which the muzzle, with its round-bore nostrils—they
looked as if a ping-pong ball would just fit into each
of them—was the apex. All resemblance to a living
thing was then gone; but when the great beast brought
down his head again into a natural position, and
looked about with full eyes, dark and mild, one saw
that he was an intelligent and refined animal.
Modification seems to have gone considerably farther
in this species than in the common seal. The skin,
except for the long, strong whiskers, is absolutely
smooth and hairless. The nose, head, and neck are
more in a line, whilst the back rises from the latter
with a still gentler undulation. This elongation and
prominence of the nose, or rather the muzzle, which
is broad, also, in proportion, take away from that full
and rounded appearance of the forehead which gives
such a look of intelligence—almost of humanity—to
the common seal. But this, no doubt, is an inferiority
in appearance only, and “the eye’s black intelligence ”
remains. But though the jewel is there the setting
of it is very poor. There appears to be no defined
eyelid, so that when the eye is shut it looks like
a mere slit in the naked skin. Eyebrows, however,

IN THE SHETLANDS 237

are represented by three or four strong white bristles
on either side. The nostrils open and close with
strong expansive and contractive power, and blow the
water away from them almost like the spouting of
a miniature whale. When wide open they look as
round as the aperture of a champagne or beer bottle,
which they somewhat suggest, and this, perhaps, has
given their bearer his title of bottle-nosed. Whether
this is more than a local name amongst the Shetlanders
I do not know. It is here that I first heard it, and
that was two years ago when I was describing this
very selfsame animal, as I now believe, to a young
man who suggested that ‘‘perhaps it was a bottle-
nosed seal.”

Such was the peculiar creature which I now set
myself to observe, and which, except for a long
interval during which it disappeared altogether, con-
tinued to rise and sink and rise again, till after five,
when I left, having observed it thoroughly. Several
times he went down with a fine roll over, sideways, as
well as forward. This I should not have seen had
I gone away in an hour or two; but why I stayed so
long was that I hoped to see this great bottle-nosed
seal lie upon the seaweed-covered rocks at low water,
as I had seen him do once before. For some reason
or other, however—lI doubt not there is a good one—
there has been no such low tide since that day ; the
seaweed has but just shown for a little, and the great
creature, who could hardly have lain there, has not
lain anywhere else—not, at least, in this cove which he

238 THE BIRD WATCHER

affects, or for the greater part of the time. He seems
to be a much less lazy sort of seal than the common
kind. Iam not quite sure why he went away, as he
did for an hour, from about three. I thought at the
time I had alarmed him, for although I lay flat upon
a huge slanting rock, with my head not projecting
beyond the edge, he seemed to look full at me with
a questioning countenance, and then till four o’clock
the pool that had known him knew him no more.
Whilst he was gone I, with a lot of labour, brought
a number of flat stones from the chaos of rocks and
boulders which makes the beach here, and with these
I made a sort of loopholed wall, through and from
behind which I could look, as I had done before to
watch the shags on my island. That, by the way, was
still standing when I got there again after two years.
I wonder how long this other may remain on this
most lonely shore, to which no one, to judge by all
appearances, ever comes down, from one year’s end to
another. Long may it be so! |
Just before beginning my masonry I had an in-
teresting experience. From a crevice in the pilings of
these huge black boulders that lie strewn in wild con-
fusion between the base of the cliffs and the sea —
making the gloomy beach—from amongst these, I say,
and within about three steps of me, forth hopped a
little wren, and began immediately to procure food in
the more or less near neighbourhood of my boots.
The boulders had hitherto seemed bare enough, but
wherever the wren went numbers of little hopping

IN THE SHETLANDS 239

things, with long bodies and many legs, began to hop
and skip about like a routed army. They seemed to
know the enemy was amongst them, and for the wren,
he pursued them with the most relentless activity, and
looking very fierce about it. He came so near me
that I could see him catch them individually, see the
whole chase, all his little runs, hops, turns, flights,
flutters, each with its distinct object ; nor did | ever see
him chase one that he did not shortly capture. From
the very first, something in the bird’s manner shot into
me the idea that he had never before seen man—
never, at least, with the eye of a full recognition.
Supposing him to live and breed in this one great
rocky amphitheatre, this would be likely enough, for
even at the top of it, on the ness-side, one man only
lives, and that but for three months in the year. It
is true that during those three months the ness is
often visited—by thieves and others—but none, it
is safe to assume, either know of or come down to
this cove.

At any rate this wren came at last so near me that
I expected every instant he would hop on to one of
my boots, and although he did not actually do this I
believe it was simply because he saw nothing there to
catch. He often ran up the steep, rough sides of
these great blocks with the greatest ease, investigating
all their chinks and every little piece of moss or lichen
that adhered to them. Always he had an air of
severity, something farouche, about him, which was
very amusing to see. It is fascinating, I think, thus to

240 THE BIRD WATCHER

watch little familiar woodland birds by the wild sea
shore and amidst stupendous scenery like this.

Puffins, at the right time, are, no doubt, very
amorous, as even now, when they should be a little
passé in such matters, I have seen them so. In this
state they will sometimes indulge in quite a little
frenzy first of kissing and then of cossetting—nibbling,
that is to say, each other’s feathers about the head and
face. Indeed, such pretty little lover-like actions—
mostly on the part of one bird of the two, I presume
the female—were never seen.

But they are not only loving, these little birds.
They are playful too, and, as I think, sympathetic.
Thus when one, standing on the rock, gives its wings
a little fluttering shake, another by the side of it—its
mate, probably, but perhaps only its friend — will
sometimes catch one of them in its adorned beak and
playfully detain it. This is done with wonderful
softness—obviously in good part, and so it is re-
ceived. Is it not fun, then, playfulness ? Perhaps it
is not. It may be but a part of the passion-play, and
we should not step too lightly in our judgment from
primaries to secondaries. On my last visit here, for
instance, whilst climbing painfully along this black
beach—a horror of heaped stones and fragments,
making, often, unscalable, albeit only miniature, pre-
cipices—I happened to see—looking down from a
huge tilted rock that guarded one entrance to a little
dark valley of confusion—I happened to see there a
poor little puffin that had got its head caught in some

IN THE SHETLANDS 241

way amongst the rocks at the bottom, and was strug-
gling and flapping its wings to escape, as it lay flat
along one of them. Another puffin was standing
beside it, and whilst I looked it took hold of the dis-
tressed one’s wing and, as it seemed to me, pulled at it
as though trying to assist, but in a feeble half-knowing
sort of way, which had its pathos. But here, too,
how careful one should be in attributing motives,
either to birds or men ; for this puffin may merely
have taken hold of its companion’s wing, as I have
seen others do whilst standing together at their ease.
If so, then the action was not prompted by any idea of
aiding, but merely by general good-will, unsharpened
by a proper realisation of what had taken place. Here,
once again, was a flapping wing, which may have sug-
gested no more to the mind of the bird taking hold of
it than it had upon other occasions. Not that I think
this myself, but in the little I saw there was no cer-
tainty. Unfortunately, I startled away the helper (as
I like to think of him) and this to no purpose, since
after various attempts to get to the distressed puffin I
had to give it up, for though I might have reached it
there seemed a likelihood, if I did, of my having to
remain there indefinitely in its place. To slide down
a steep rock is one thing, but to climb up it again
quite another—nor was there any other way that I
could see of getting back when once at the bottom.
Some time afterwards, however, I could not see the
bird, so, though I purposely did not look very closely,
I am glad to think that it had got free.
R

242 THE BIRD WATCHER

This little incident gives a hint as to some of the
mischances which may befall puffins here. With such
a jumble of heaped rocks and boulders there are great
facilities for slipping or getting between them in such
a way as might make it difficult to get out again, and
an alarmed bird, caught as this one was, would, of
course, pull and pull, wedging itself all the tighter. If
found in this situation by a gull—or perhaps, skua—
its fate would be sealed, and its picked and disem-
bowelled carcase would then be left upon the rocks, as
I have so often found it. Such a misfortune, indeed,
cannot be supposed to be of common occurrence ; but
the hundreds of thousands of puffins must be con-
sidered.

I have said that puffins are amorous. They are
bellicose also—the two, indeed, are interwoven to-
gether—and have a tendency—but this, perhaps, 1s
included in the main proposition—to fight in mél/ées.
When two are about it a third and then a fourth joins,
and so on, and several will stand menacing one another
with their sharp, razor-like mandibles held threaten-
ingly open, and often moving like scissor-blades.
Then, all at once, one springs on another, seizes him
by the scruff of the neck, and—so it has often appeared
to me—endeavours to throw him over whatever edge
they both happen to be near—for they are generally
near the edge of something. It is curious—or at
least it takes one by surprise—that when the beak is
thus opened it looks quite different to what it did
before. Being divided, its breadth, which is such a

IN THE SHETLANDS 243

peculiar feature, is much diminished, and the leaf-like
shape is also lost since the mandibles diverge more
and more widely towards the tips, like a real pair of
scissors. Thus the bird itself, since the beak is so
salient a part of it, suddenly loses its characteristic
appearance.

Marvellous is this beak, and indeed, as far as its
appearance is concerned, it exists now wholly and
solely for courting and nuptial purposes, being put on
each spring before the breeding season commences,
like the false nose in a pantomime, which, though not
so artistic and without the same justification for its
employment, seems equally a necessity to the esthetic
susceptibilities of a British audience.’ It reminds
one something of the bill of a toucan, much abridged
——beginning, as it were, from near the tip—and as
far as it goes it is perhaps even more wonderful, for
not only is it brilliant with rose-red, lemon-yellow,
and bright bluish-grey, but the lines of colour corre-
spond to alternate ridges and furrows running down
the length of it, which give it a fine embossed
appearance, as though both the sculptor and painter
had exercised their art upon it. The funny little
orange-vermilion legs are more brilliant even than the
bill, but they are cruder. You do not think of a real
artist in their case, only of a clever artisan with
a paint-pot, who, employed by the other, has taken

1 No wonder, when such a play as The ‘Palace of Truth as played here by refined
amateurs before the cultured and cultivated, is thought to require one—and very
like a puffin’s, too, it was, before it began to melt.

244 THE BIRD WATCHER

up each bird as its beak was finished, and given it
several good coatings. That is what it looks like,
and so close do the little toy things stand, and so
little do they seem to think or care about you that,
with the proper materials, you almost think you could
do it yourself; yes, and would like to try, too—if only
there were a few with the paint off—black coats, white
waistcoats, vermilion legs and all: except the beak
and face, which are beyond you, unless, indeed, you
are an artist—and a clever one——yourself.

It is wonderful sitting here. To have a dozen or
twenty of these little painted puffins on a rock within
three paces of you, in full view, with nothing what-
ever intervening, some standing up, others couched
on their breasts, some preening, some shaking their |
wings, most of them unconscious of your presence,
a few just looking at you, from time to time, with an
expression of mild curiosity unmixed with fear, seem-
ing to say “And who may you be, sir?” is almost
a new sensation.

Yes, this is Tammy-Norie-land. Puffins are every-
where. They dot all the steep, green slopes, and
cluster on the flat surfaces or salient angles of half
the grey boulders that pierce the soil, or lie scattered
all about it. Great crowds of them float on the sea,
and other crowds oppress the air with constant, fast-
beating pinions, passing continually from land to sea
and from sea to land again, whilst many, on the latter
journey, even though laden with fish, circle many
times round, in a wide circumference, before finally

IN THE SHETLANDS 245

settling. The soil, too, is honeycombed with their
burrows, and in each of these, as well as in the nooks
and chambers of rocks that lie closely together, there
is a young fluffy black puffin, which increases the
population by about a third, to say nothing of
those parent birds which may also be underground.
A million of puffins, I should think, must be standing,
flying, or swimming in the more or less immediate
vicinity ; the air, especially, if it be a sunny day—or,
rather, for a sunny minute or so—is like one great
sunbeam full of little dancing bird-motes. On the
shore they stand together in friendly groups and
clusters, and leave it for those much larger gatherings
where they ride, hundreds together, ducking and
bobbing on the light waves like a fleet of little
painted boats, each one with a highly ornamental bird-
or, rather, puffin-headed prow. Thus their duties
are carried on under the mantle of social pleasure; it
is all a coming and going between a land-party and
a sea-party, so that the domestic life of these birds
would be a type and pattern of feminine happiness if
only they were a little—by which I mean vastly—more
noisy. Puffins indeed are somewhat silent birds—at
least they have been so during the time I have seen
them—from the middle of June, that is to say, till
the middle of August—though as they can and do
utter with effect, on occasions, they are, perhaps, more
vociferous at an earlier period, before domestic matters
have become so far advanced. Not that amidst such
a huge number of them, their note—which I have

246 THE BIRD WATCHER

described—is not frequently heard; but still, whatever
I have seen them doing they have generally been
doing it dumbly. This includes the series of funny
little bows or bobs, accompanied by a shuffling from
one foot to the other, which the male, one may say
with certainty, is in the habit of making to the female,
but which probably the female—as in the case of other
sea-birds I have mentioned—also sometimes makes
to the male. A display of this sort is usually followed
by a little kissing or nebbing match, after which, one
of the birds, standing so as directly to face the other,
will often raise, and then again lower, the head, some
eight or nine times in succession, in a half solemn
manner, at the same time opening its gaudy beak,
sometimes to a considerable extent, yet all the while
without uttering a sound. All this looks very
affectionate, but I have often remarked that after
one such display and interchange of endearments, the
bird that has initiated or taken the leading part in
both, turns to another, and repeats, or offers to
repeat, the performance—for on such occasions it
does not, as a rule, receive much encouragement from
the second bird.

The male puffin, therefore—for I hardly suppose it
to be the female who acts in this way—would seem
to be of a large-hearted disposition. This silent
opening of the bill which I have spoken of 1s, there-
fore, an accustomed—probably an important—part of
the advances made by the one sex towards the other ;
and here again I have been much struck by the bright

IN THE SHETLANDS 24.7

yellow colour of the buccal cavity which is thereby
revealed, and the display of which supplies, in my
opinion—as in the other cases I have brought forward
—the true motive of the bird’s conduct in this respect.
Handsome—or, at any rate, ouwtré—as the puffin’s
beak is, it is hardly, if at all, more striking to the eye
than is this vivid gleam of one bright colour, revealed
suddenly in a flash-light by this distension of the
mandibles. It is like the sword gleaming out of
the scabbard, whose brightness comes as a surprise,
whereas the latter, however rich and ornate, is a per-
manent quantity, and so lacks the charm of novelty.
The fact that the puffin’s beak is a superlative orna-
ment does not, in my opinion, render it unlikely that
there should be another one lying within it. It is
absurd in such a matter to say that this or that is
enough, and in the puffin’s case we are certainly
debarred from doing so, since not only has the beak
been decorated, but the parts adjacent to it, as well as
the whole head, have also been, so as to join in the
general effect. The eye is almost as salient a feature
as the beak itself, and moreover, where the mandibles
meet at their base, there is on either side a little
orange button or rosette, formed by foldings of the
naked skin, which must certainly rank as a sexual
adornment in the eyes of all who believe in such
a thing, and with which, apparently—as in the other
cases—the inner coloration is continuous.

The puffin, therefore, makes the seventh species of
sea-bird in which, as | believe from my own observa-

248 THE BIRD WATCHER

tion, the buccal cavity is displayed by the one sex as
a charm or attraction before the eyes of the other,
having been specially coloured in order to render
it so. A question, however, is raised by this con-
clusion in regard to which I have, as yet, said nothing,
but which I will shortly discuss in a separate chapter,
since I have been unable to compress it into any
of the foregoing ones. It had occurred to me as
a result of my general field observations, before these
particular ones which have only served to emphasise it.

CHAPTER XxXIxX
THOUGHTS IN A SENTRY-BOX

abet wren was an interlude, and the puffins

another. When he of the bottle-nose returned,
I at first used the shelter which I had constructed
during his absence, but soon left it for another great
precipice of a rock that also overhung the pool, and
in which a huge fracture, half-way up, made a splendid
natural concealment. Afterwards, however, I came
to the conclusion that as long as one behaved with
any sense of propriety, avoiding loud or startling
noises, and not putting oneself shamelessly en é¢vidence,
these seals would never take alarm, for indeed they
seemed to have lived all their lives in a happy un-
familiarity with man, upon which terms I devoutly
hope they may continue.

Well, like the world, one does go forward, though
slowly. Not so many years ago the sight of these
seals would have made me want to shoot them. God
alone knows why—or, rather, I know why, perfectly
well : the inherited instinct of the savage, which is not
in itself, as some humanitarians think, a bad thing, or
at any rate in the savage it was not, only it is now
out of place, and reason and morality together ought
to insist upon crushing it. It is because the wish, or
rather passion, to kill wild animals is so natural, that
it seems so right to those who have it, for the strong

249

250 THE BIRD WATCHER

desire to do almost anything makes almost anything
seem right, or rather the impelling force in such
cases is a force, whereas that which seeks to restrain
it is weak, cold, frigid, like the voice of reason in
love.

Moreover, I believe that to sin out the evil in one
is nature’s true way of progress—in which I join
issue with the spiritualistic doctrine of repression—
and therefore were it not for the many ill conse-
quences, the worst of which is specific extinction,
I should not think a man did wrong to prey upon the
animal world as long as to do so was his nature—that
is to say, the stronger part of his nature ; nor can it
be denied that he who does so is acting in accordance
with the scheme of the universe, as far as it is possible
to make it out, whereas the humanitarian seems for
ever to be flying in the very face of the deity, who,
“with no uncertain voice,” has said, through all time,
to all His creatures :—“ Kill one another.” Whether
one would be right to obey such a deity after one’s
nature has begun to rebel against His methods is
another question, though, as plants must be included
amongst the creatures, it would be rather difficult not
to; but that, at any rate, is what He, or nature, or
whatever we may choose to call it, has most clearly
said, and I think that humanitarians, though they
may be very right, ought to consider the difficulty
here involved. My impression is that they shirk it.

But in regard to sport, I wish that every civilised
representative of the savage in this particular respect

IN THE SHETLANDS 251

would arrive at the point where I now stand, by the
same natural process which has brought me there.
One cannot long watch any creature without insensibly
beginning to sympathise with it, to enter into its
state, to imagine oneself it—which is to be it—and
then, how can one shoot oneself ? Why, it would be
suicide. As for me, I watch wild animals, when I get
the chance, not only with sympathy, but with envy.
I am eternally wishing myself them—strange as it
may appear to some who, | suppose, rate themselves
highly. That was Iago’s case. ‘Ere I would,” says
he, etc., etc. (something very preposterous), ‘‘ I would
exchange my humanity with a baboon.” Well, and
why not? With a guarantee against getting into the
Zoological Gardens, most of us would be gainers by
the bargain. I, at any rate—I say it merely as an
expression of my conviction; let my enemies make
the worst of it—I, at any rate, would. As to the
advantages which would have accrued from the ar-
rangement in lago’s case—not only to himself, but to
almost all the dramatis persone of the play—they are
too obvious to need pointing out. Baboons, however,
stand so high in the scale that the change for many of
us would, except in regard to surroundings, be hardly
perceptible, so that the desire to bring it about may
offer too little proof of that force of sympathy which
I pretend to. But I do not stop there, and even at
this very moment I would gladly exchange myself
with this bottle-nosed seal I am watching, could I
bring myself to cheat the poor fool so. Oh that fine

Ge THE BIRD WATCHER

sensuous roll in the water! made with such sense of
enjoyment—so slow, so lazy, eking it out—the whole
of the animal seeming to smack its lips.

We “human mortals,” I believe, quite under-
estimate the sensuous pleasures of animals. Their
mere ways of moving must often be infinite joys
to them, seeing that besides the motion itself—as
with this seal, the gnu, or the springbok, the half-
flying arboreal monkey, or the soaring bird—there is
the ecstasy of perfect health and strength and the
freedom of perfect nudity—absolute disencumbrance.
The first of these may be felt almost, perhaps, in as
great a degree by some savages, but if I may judge by
my own experience it never is and never can be by a
civilised man leading a civilised life. With us, speak-
ing generally, health is more a negative than an affir-
mative proposition. To be well is not to be ill. But
in the veldt, where one walks all day and eats one
hearty meal by the camp-fire at the end of it, it is
like a strong wine that one has drunk. It is a mighty,
stirring, active, compelling force—ending, however, in
fever, which the animals don’t get. No doubt the
pleasures of the intellect are of a higher order than
those which spring from mere corporeal ecstasy ; but
is the civilised man, writing a treatise, happier than
the savage in his war-dance, or the capercailzie going
through his love antics? ‘That is the question”;
or, in other words, does civilisation make for happi-
ness ?

Who, in spite of much laboured reasoning to the

IN THE SHETLANDS 253

contrary, can doubt that more happiness enters into
the life of most savages than into that of most civilised
men?’ Not I, who have seen the Kaffirs, unblessed
by our rule, and read Wallace’s account of the
Papuans in The Malay Archipelago, which, to show
that I am not talking nonsense, I will here quote :
““These forty black, naked, mop-headed savages
seemed intoxicated with joy and excitement. Not
one of them could remain still fora moment... . A
few presents of tobacco made their eyes glisten ; they
would express their satisfaction by grins and shouts,
by rolling on deck, or by a headlong leap overboard.
Schoolboys on an unexpected holiday, Irishmen at
a fair, or midshipmen on shore, would give but faint
idea of the exuberant animal enjoyment of these
people.” The grown Papuan, therefore, is happier—
so it struck Wallace—than the civilised schoolboy.
It is a well-chosen point of comparison. We are not
ashamed, most of us, to look back to our boyhood as
to a state of high-tide happiness that, upon the whole,
with a fluctuation or two not quite in favour of the
intellect, has been receding ever since ; but we kick at
thinking savages happier than ourselves. Kick as
we may, the Arab on his horse or his swift dromedary,
the Lap on his snow-shoes, the Esquimaux in his
canoe, the Indian chasing the buffalo—as he used to
do—or the Pacific Islander surf-riding, carry it, I
believe, as far as sheer happiness is concerned, high
over the civilised man with all his greater powers of
mind and his advanced morality.

254 THE BIRD WATCHER

>

‘But witchcraft, with its terrors,” says some one.
True ; but I have lain in a Kaffir village on the banks
of the Zambesi, within the murmur of its Falls, and
watched the young men and maidens dancing together
in the full moon—there seemed little of terror there.
And I have seen my own boys talking and smoking
dacha round the camp fires. Where was the brooding
terror, or the dark cloud? Savages do not anticipate,
as we do. ‘They feel no uncertain evils, not, at least,
till they are very near indeed, till the wizard 1s actually
“smelling” them out; they live, like the animal, in
the joy or pain of the moment, and their moments
have more of joy and less of pain in them than ours.

But if witchcraft were the “dark cloud that hangs
for ever over savage life,” that Lord Avebury (Sir
John Lubbock) tells us it is, have we no dark clouds,
and have we less or more capacity for feeling them ?
What is an engagement to dine then, or an enforced
call? and consider the dark cloud of having to go
every year, en famille, to the seaside, that hangs over
the civilised married wretch! Surely the certainty of
things like these is worse than only the risk of a
witchcraft exposure, a thing which, when it occurs
amongst savages (and it was the same with ourselves)
is often, if not generally, deserved—for evidence of
which I would refer to Miss Kingsley.’

Then take travelling. It is referred to by Lord
Avebury as one great source of pleasure which
civilised people enjoy, but which savages do not.

1 West African Studies, pp. 157-68.

IN THE SHETLANDS 266

He should have restricted the proposition to
civilised women. No word more terrible in the
ears of a husband than “ Paris” on the lips of a wife.
What worry, what anxiety, fear of adventurers,
horror of waiters, hatred of hotels—what misery, in
short, of almost every degree and kind, do not
men go through who have to travel with their
families! How they would all stay at home if they
only could, and how glad they are—but this 1s a set-
off—when they get back! Asa real fact—and every
one must really know it—a very great number of so-
called civilised pleasures are much more in the nature
of pains—and acute ones—to those who are most
truly civilised. The joys of the savage, however, are
real joys.

But comparisons of this sort are of little value,
since they can only be drawn by those who belong to
one of the two states, and not to both of them, and
who, therefore, besides their prejudices, and that their
wish is generally father to their thought, are of
necessity unable to feel, or even to imagine, much of
what is felt by members of the opposite one. Practi-
cally, of course, it is always the civilised man who
passes judgment, and in doing so he often adds cant
and insincerity to the disabilities under which he
labours. For whilst insisting to the utmost on all the
pleasures—many of them empty and artificial—which
belong to and represent the civilised state, he says
little or nothing about certain elementary, and, there-
fore, very real ones, which savages enjoy much more

256 THE BIRD WATCHER

unrestrainedly than do we. Very fair, very impartial,
truly, when the question is not which is the more
advanced man, but which is the happier man. We
have much the same sort of thing in the case of com-
parisons made by Christian divines and historians as
between paganism and Christianity—their relative
degree of truth, merit, influence in a right direction,
etc.; judgment, of course, being always given in
favour—generally immensely in favour—of the latter.
Seeing that the pagans are all dead and cannot answer
any point made against them, 1 wonder these com-
placent bestowers of unqualified approval on them-
selves are not ashamed to bluster so, where they have
it all their own way. When I read one of these
prejudiced panegyrics, affecting the form and manner
of impartiality, I always seem to see a picture of some
reverend old learned priest of Jupiter or Apollo,
who, in similar pompous periods, and with the very
same tones and gestures which one can imagine in the
Christian author, goes over the same ground, and,
with the same show of absolute fairness, settles every-
thing precisely the opposite way.

As I have slidden out of a consideration of the
relative happiness enjoyed by man and the lower
animals into a similar appraisement as between the
civilised man and the savage, I will just express my
opinion (at this moment) that wherever the latter has
the advantage over the former, the animal a fortiori
has it still more. Amongst animals, moreover, there
is not the same inequality of pleasure, as between the

oe:

IN THE SHETLANDS 216

sexes, that there is, or is thought to be, amongst
savages. But this is enough of /a haute phelosophie.

How snug it is, now, whilst I write this by the red
fire in the little sentry-box, on the great lonely ness
that the wind howls over, whose head-gear are the
wreathing mists, and whose skirtings the sea and the
sea-birds! There is no one within near three miles,
and I myself am alone. On the “great lonely veldt,”
as city journalists like to call it, you have your boys,
the fires, and the oxen sitting by the waggon-chain,
and chewing the cud—a picturesque, a romantic and
interesting scene, but not a lonely one. Here it is
real aloneness—yet I wish I had not to say, with
Scipio, that ‘I am never less alone than when alone.”
True solitude should imply no fleas.

During the time that this large bottle-nosed seal
was away, a small common one—the same that lies on
the rock in this sea-pool every day from before it is
uncovered to the flowing in of the tide—came and
disported himself—as usual I had said, but it was not
quite the same. He first began to dive and reappear,
at regular intervals, as does the great one, and I soon
found that he was behaving like him in all things,
even to the standing on end in the water, like a peg-
top, with his nose straight up in the air. As his
body, however, is not so bladdery, and his nose not
so extraordinary, he did not present so strange an
aspect. He differed, moreover, in the length of his
immersions, which was not more than five or six
minutes, whilst those of the other one—the great,

S

258 THE BIRD WATCHER

portly bottle-nose—were as under, viz., from 12.6 to
12.15); fromol2. 16s to. 12.20.) trom 2.2; toltongose
from 12.374 to 12.48; from 4.26 to 4.39; from 4.40
to 4.543; from 4.554 to 5.7%; from 5.94 to 5.23;
from §.24¢ to 5.3743 from 5.384 to 5.51; from
5.525 to 6.44; from 6.54 to 6.182. Thus only
three out of a dozen of his subaqueous excursions
was for less than ten minutes, the shortest one being
for nine minutes and the longest for fourteen minutes
and a half. His stays above water were of even more
uniform duration, varying between a minute and
a minute and a half, except in one instance where he
stayed a minute and three quarters. An animal of
regular habits, by my fay! No doubt the great bottle-
nose can stay down longer on occasions if he wishes
it, but as this is his usual period, it must, I suppose,
be what he finds most comfortable; and the same
should apply to every other kind of seal. The
nostrils of this larger one have the appearance of
being more highly developed than in the common
species, and this may have something to do with his
more prolonged submersions, if I may take what I
have seen in these two individuals as typical of their
respective communities.

Returning now to the common seal, what distin-
guished him this afternoon from the bottle-nosed one
was that, after he had come up and gone down again
several times, he at last remained floating for half an
hour or more in this perpendicular fashion, his head
for the most part straight up in the air, whilst at

IN THE SHETLANDS 259

intervals he would open his mouth widely, and keep it
so for some seconds at a time, then shutting and again
Opening it, as though he had some special object in so
doing, though I can form no conjecture as to what
it was. The inside of his mouth being—especially
the parts farthest down—of a deep and bright red,
contrasted most vividly with the cold grey of the
water and the general colourlessness of this northern
scene. The grass must be excepted from this picture ;
but though bright enough if looked at by itself, it is
unable to overpower the general effect imparted by sky,
by sea, by naked rock and precipice. After a consider-
able time spent in this curious performance, the seal
at last desists and swims to his rock, now but thinly
covered by the waves. He circumnavigates it, hangs
about it affectionately, lies upon it in the wash of the
waves, swims away again, returns, and now, it being
just possible to do so, reclines in earnest, adjusting
himself to his greater satisfaction as the tide recedes.

But it is not only on the rocks that seals lie sleep-
ing. They do so also—as one is doing now—in the
sea itself, rising and sinking with the heave and
subsidence of the wave, advancing and retiring with
its flux and reflux without exhibiting any kind of
independent motion—less, indeed, than they indulged
in, in basking on the rocks; for they do not, whilst thus
floating, seem so inclined to scratch or kick or stretch
the legs, or go through any other of their various
quaint, uncouth actions. The eyes are shut, but they
open at long, lazy intervals. They float, or rather

260 THE BIRD WATCHER

drift, thus, mostly belly downwards, but will roll to
either side or even round on to the back, not lying
horizontally, however, but aslant, with all except their
head, or rather face, sunk down in the water, just
like a sack of something, quite enough asleep to
seem dead; in fact, as much as possible they make
the sea a rock. Delicious they look, thus idly swayed
about with the play of the waves—drawn this way and
that, sucked down and then back again; mixed up
with a tangle of seaweed. An amateur watcher of
seals feels inclined to wonder what they ever do
except sleep, or try to sleep. Great sleepers they
certainly seem to be, and this is the daytime. Are
they, then, nocturnal? The carnivorous land animals
from whom they are descended probably were so.

CHAPTER XXX
INTERSEXUAL SELECTION

Ls all the birds which I have enumerated as having

a bright or pleasingly coloured mouth cavity,
acquired, as I believe, through the agency of
sexual selection, the sexes are alike, both in regard
to this special feature, and also in their plumage
and general appearance. They are alike also in
their habit of opening and shutting the bill, as
it were, at one another, and in their other nuptial
actions or antics. The first of these two identities
involves no difficulty. In many birds of bright
plumage the female is as gaudy, or almost as gaudy,
as the male, and it is then assumed (by those, at
least, who follow Darwin) that each successive
variation in the hue and markings of the latter has,
by the laws of inheritance, been transmitted in an
equal or only slightly less degree to the former. As
far, therefore, as the particular kind of beauty which
I am here considering is, in itself, concerned, the
arguments for or against its acquirement by the male,
through the choice of the female, are the same as
in regard to that of any other kind, nor do they
- extend any farther; but in the display of it by the
female as well as by the male a fresh element enters
into the problem, as it does also in the case of any
other nuptial display common to the two sexes.

261

262 THE BIRD WATCHER

The brilliant mouth-cavity can, of course, only be
exhibited by the opening of the bill, and in doing
this—in the particular way, and with the accompani-
ments described in each case—both sexes act alike.
In other words, if there is really a conscious display
in the matter then each sex displays to the other.
What conclusion are we to draw from this? Either, |
as it appears to me, we must assume that both the
male and female equally strive to please one another,
or that, while the actions of the male mean something,
those of the female mean nothing, or nothing in
particular, having been transmitted to her, through
him, by those same laws of inheritance which have
given her, in these and other cases, his own orna-
mental plumage, and not in accordance with any
principle by virtue of which she has been rendered
more and more attractive to him. For, except in
some special cases where the female is larger and
handsomer than the male, the Darwinian theory does
not suppose that the hen bird has been modified to
please the taste of the cock, whose eagerness, it 1s
assumed, has made this quite unnecessary.

But any uniformly repeated action is a habit, and
habits must bear a relation to the psychology of the
being practising them, from which it would seem to
follow that whatever be the mental state of the male
bird through whom any habit has been transmitted to
the female, such mental state, being the cause of such
habit, must have been transmitted to her along with it.
To suppose, however, that the female acts in a certain

IN THE SHETLANDS 263

way in order to please the male, but that since she has
not learnt to do so under the true laws of sexual
selection, but has acquired her character incidentally,
merely, by transmission from the male, and that, there-
fore, her conduct has no effect upon the male, since
it has not been brought about in relation to his dis-
position, which is so eager as to make it indifferent to
him what hen he gets, as long as he gets one—to sup-
pose all this is—well, for me it is very difficult. The
plain common sense of the thing seems to be that if
the female displays her charms to the male in the same
way that he displays his to her, she must do it for the
same purpose, and is no more likely to be wasting
labour, or expending it unnecessarily, than is he. If
we do not give the same value to actions identical in
either sex—if we will not allow “ sauce for the gander”
to be “‘sauce for the goose” —we become involved,
as it appears to me, in inextricable confusion ; and,
moreover, can it be supposed that a habit which bore
no fruit would remain fixed, or be governed by times
and seasons, even if it did not cease on account of its
inutility ? Assuming, then, as I feel bound to assume,
that the languishing actions of two fulmar petrels
when sitting together on a ledge, or the throwing up
of the head and opening the bill at each other of a
pair of shags, each during the breeding season, are
equally pleasing to one sex as to the other, may we
not, or are we not rather compelled to think that such
special adornments as we admit in the male to have
been acquired through the agency of sexual selection

264 THE BIRD WATCHER

(whether we include amongst these the bright colour-
ing of the mouth or not), have been acquired by the
female also in the same way—that there has been, in
fact, a double process of sexual selection instead of a
single one only ; that the male, as well as the female,
has been capable of exercising choice?

Great stress has been laid upon the eagerness of the
male, as contrasted with the coyness of the female, in
courtship, throughout nature ; but were the latter to
possess some eagerness also, her share of it need not
be so great as the male’s, so that we should not, by
supposing her to, be contravening this principle: she
might even fly, or seem to fly, from his pursuit. How,
then, might her own ardour become valid to the extent
of influencing the choice of the cock? As it appears
to me, this might be brought about through the
jealousy inspired in one hen bird by the sight of
attentions paid to another. She, the jealous one,
might have behaved coyly had the same, or another,
male wooed her, but her feelings become inflamed
and her modesty is lost when she sees that which, for
all her seeming, she would have wished for herself,
bestowed upon another. She interposes, let us say, at
first, by attacking the favoured female, but if this one
is as strong and as determined as herself, there will be
now a series of indecisive combats, of which the cock
will be the spectator ; and why should not these com-
bats be varied with displays, or something of that
nature, on the part of either combatant, with the view
of attracting him? If so, the cock who has previously,

IN THE SHETLANDS 265

we will suppose, been chosen for his good looks, be-
comes in his turn—for how, under such circumstances,
can he help it ?—the chooser between those of others ;
and thus there will be a double process of selection
carried on between the two sexes.

But may we not go a step farther in our supposi-
tions '—for which, as I believe, there is a considerable
body of evidence, in spite of the frequent great diff-
culty and consequent absence of proper observation.
The theory of sexual selection is based upon the
assumption that choice is exercised by the female,
and this exercise of choice must go hand-in-hand
with a corresponding development of the critical
faculty in regard to the comparative merits of different
males, which again would involve a power of taking
a liking, or a dislike, to any one of them. How are
we to reconcile all this with that quiescent, waiting-to-
be-spoken-to frame of mind which we assume to be
that of the hen bird in regard to the cock, during the
season of courtship? A decided preference should
show itself in actions. Why should she never exer-
cise her critical faculty except as between such males
as are rivals for her favour? If, for instance, she is
courted by two or more males, why should she not
declare in favour of a third or fourth that is either
indifferent or courting another hen, on the ground of
his superior beauty alone ?

Why, in fact, should it not be with birds as it is
with men and women? Women, to casual observa-
tion, seem at least as coy and modest as do hen birds,

266 THE BIRD WATCHER

in whom, however, there can be no idea of modesty.
They are supposed to be wooed, and not to woo ; but
they both can, and, to a considerable extent, do exer-
cise the latter power. If they cannot ask, they can
demand to be asked ; and to think that the latter is a
less powerful agency than the former is to think very
naively. If women were not often, in reality, very
active wooers, such common expressions as “ setting
her cap at him,” “drawing him on,” “ throwing her-
self at his head,” etc., etc., could hardly have arisen,
and it must not be forgotten that the same thing can
be done both coarsely and refinedly, visibly and so as
to be hardly perceptible. No doubt there is some-
thing called modesty amongst civilised women, but
there are also jealousy and prudential considerations—
very powerful solvents of anything of the sort. Yet
with all this we have the prevailing idea that (even in
a civilised state of things) it is man who woos and
woman who is won; man who advances and woman
who retires ; man who seeks and woman who shuns.
The reason probably is that the actions of man are
of a more downright nature, and easier to observe and
follow, than those of woman-——who, as a clever writer
has remarked, approaches her object obliquely—and,
secondly, that it is man mostly, and not woman, who
has given his opinion on this and other matters through
the most authoritative channels—for it is man who,
by virtue of his intellect and his selfishness, holds the
chief places of authority.

May not these factors have affected in some degree,

IN THE SHETLANDS 267

also, our conclusions in regard to the lower animals ?
Here, too, the actions of the female may be often
more subtle and difficult to follow than those of the
male, though in many cases, as I believe, they are seen
plainly enough, but, for a reason shortly to be men-
tioned, attributed to the male. Yet in the case of
birds, at any rate, it is very noticeable in some species
that the females, after the couples have once paired off,
are extremely eager in their enticements of the males
to hymeneal pleasures, and it seems difficult to recon-
cile this eagerness after marriage with any very real
coldness before it—especially as the supposed coy
sweetheart of one spring has been the forward wife of
the spring before. But there is another point, in this
connection, which it is of the utmost importance for
us to bear in mind. Birds in which, if in any, we
might expect to find the courting actions alike or
similar in the male and female (and this would imply
an active wooing on the part of each) are of two
classes—viz. (1) those in which the sexes are alike or
nearly so, and (2) those in which, though they may
differ conspicuously, the one is as handsome, or nearly
as handsome, as the other. In the first case, the colours
of the hen must either be due to the selective agency
of the cock, or they must have been transmitted to
her through the latter (as being prepotent), in which
case they can have no significance as far as the theory
of sexual selection is concerned—two possibilities
which equally require proving. In the second case—
but examples of this nature are not, I believe, numerous

268 THE BIRD WATCHER

——a double process of sexual selection seems the only
available explanation. Only when the female is plain
and unadorned, and the male gaudy, does it seem
primé facie evident that the latter, alone, has been
selected for his beauty. But it is just this last class of
cases that has attracted the largest amount of notice,
for, as might have been expected, it is precisely here
that we find the males—often the most ornate of birds
—indulging in the most extraordinary antics, which,
of course, arrest attention. In observing these birds,
however, the sexes are at once, and without difficulty,
distinguished, and as the females do not share in such
antics, we assume, when we see similar ones on the
part of birds, the sexes of which are indistinguishable,
that here, also, the same law holds good, though there
is by no means the same presumption that this should
be the case. Confronted with a certain effect, which
implies a corresponding causal process, in one case, we
assume this same process in another, though we can-
not there see the effect. We see, for instance, one
stock-dove manifestly court another, and at once
assume that the courting bird is the male. The
courtship, as is often the case, ends in a pretty severe
battle, where blows with the wing are given and
received on either side. We may be surprised to see
the female so belligerent, but we do not yet doubt the
fact of her being the female. The courting bird is, at
last, repelled, and a fight of much the same description
takes place between him and another stock-dove. This
one might just as well be a female as the first, but in

IN THE SHETLANDS 269

the midst of the strife both birds bow, several times,
according to their custom, and we then feel sure that
both are males. Meanwhile, however, our assured
female, who has been left where she was, is seen to
bow to another bird who has alighted near her, upon
which we change our minds, conclude that she is
a male after all, and that what we, at first, thought to
be courtship, was only a fight between two cocks. And
thus we go on, correcting and correcting our opinion—
until in a gathering of perhaps a dozen or more stock-
doves there would seem to be no female at all—
because if they were pheasants or blackcocks the hens
would not behave in this way. Again, when one first
sees a shag throw itself down before another one,
and go through a variety of strange gestures to which
the latter makes no response—if not by a caress of the
bill—it is impossible not to feel sure that the bird
thus acting is the male shag, and the other the female.
But when one afterwards sees two birds at the nest—
male and female beyond a doubt—mutually or alter-
nately performing some portion of these antics, though
without the primary prostration,! what is one to think
then? In such cases as these, where the sexes are not
to be distinguished except by dissection, or having
the bird in one’s hands, we cannot be sure that it is
always the male we see displaying to the female, and
never the female to the male. I believe, however,
that we have tacitly assumed this to be the case.

An incident which I have recorded elsewhere seems

1 T instance only what I have actually seen, and go no farther, —

2.70 THE BIRD WATCHER

to me to bear upon the foregoing remarks.’ Here
a stone-curlew that had been sitting quietly for some
time rose and uttered some shrill cries, in obedience
to which another came running up, and after the two,
standing close together, had each assumed a remark-
able and precisely similar posture, the nuptial rite was
performed. Were it not that, even by the witnessing
of this last, it 1s not always possible to differentiate
the sexes of birds, I could say with certainty that it
was the female stone-curlew, in this instance, that
called up the male; but the very striking attitude
which the birds assumed, and which, if it was not
a sexual display, it is difficult to know what to call it,
was identical in both. Again, in the case of a pair of
crested grebes that I watched during two successive
springs everything (and there was once something
very striking) in the nature of an antic or display
was indulged in equally by the male and female.
Peewits, also, behave during the nuptial season in
a very marked manner, both whilst flying and upon
the ground, and as far as I can make out—though
I will not here speak with certainty—the conduct of
both sexes is the same throughout.

The nuptial cries or notes of birds are a chief way
in which the one sex, on the theory of sexual selec-
tion, endeavours to render itself pleasing to the other.
When these charm our own ears to an extent which
we think deserving of the name of song, it is usually
the male alone that utters them, those uttered by the

1 Bird Watching, pp. 18-19,

IN THE SHETLANDS Da

female not rising to the height of such a definition.
To how great an extent this law prevails I have not
the knowledge to say, but it is not universal. The
female canary, robin, lark, and bullfinch all sing,
especially when widowed, though their song is not
equal to that of the male, whilst in the red oven-bird
of Argentina both sexes frequently join one another
for the express purpose of singing a duet. Surely in
this last case, especially, if it be assumed that the song
of the male is uttered with the purpose of pleasing
the female, or has that effect, the converse ought also
to be assumed : and if so, why should not the hens,
as well as the cocks, be sometimes chosen for their
song ?

But all nuptial notes of birds are equally song, in
the sense that they are uttered under the impulse of
sexual passion, and many of these are the same in
both the sexes. Here, again, there is a danger of
assuming, without sufficient evidence, that the char-
acteristic courting or love-note is uttered only by
the male. A mistake of this kind has been made in
the case of the nightjar—both sexes of which I have
heard “‘churr” together on the nest—and no doubt
in many other instances, including, very possibly, the
cuckoo. In a vast number of cases, however, the
cries of the two sexes during the love-season are
known to be the same. They may not always, when
this is the case, be either very wonderful or very
beautiful, but to suppose that the nuptial actions and
notes of male birds are intended to attract and charm

272 THE BIRD WATCHER

the female only when they are of a very pronounced
and extraordinary character, or very musical, would
not be logical. They must be always directed to this
end, if at all, and if the females indulge in the same
gestures and utter the same sounds, their motive in
doing so, and the effect produced by their doing it,
should be the same, but directed towards, and acting
upon, the male.

Why, then, should the male not exercise some
choice, especially should there be, in addition, jealousy
and competition amongst the females? As to this, it
is not easy to imagine a desire on the part of one
sex to please the other, unattended with jealousy, nor
can jealousy exist without competition. We are not,
however, confined to likelihood, for it is certain that
the hen bird does sometimes court the cock and fight
for him with rival hens, even in those cases where
the cock alone is beautiful. In support of this I will
quote some cases long ago brought forward by Darwin,
though not as pointing in the direction in which they
seem to me to point. Darwin, then, in his magnificent
work, The Descent of Man—now, as it appears to me,
little read and much required to be—writes as follows:
“Mr. Hewitt states that a wild duck, reared in cap-
tivity, after breeding a couple of seasons with her own
mallard, at once shook him off on my placing a male
pintail on the water. It was evidently a case of love
at first sight, for she swam about the new-comer
caressingly, though he appeared evidently alarmed
and averse to her overtures of affection. From that

IN THE SHETLANDS 273

hour she forgot her old partner. Winter passed by,
and the next spring the pintail seemed to have become
a convert to her blandishments, for they nested and
produced seven or eight young ones” (p. 415).
(Here, then, we have a male as coy as a female, who
is wooed and ultimately won.) Again: “ With one
of the vultures (Cathartes aura) of the United States,
parties of eight, ten, or more males and females
assemble on fallen logs, exhibiting the strongest desire
to please mutually” (p. 418). (Audubon, I think, is
ere, quoted.) Again >) “On the other hand, Mr.
Harrison Weir has himself observed, and has heard
from several breeders, that a female pigeon will
occasionally take a strong fancy for a particular male,
and will desert her own mate for him. Some females,
according to another experienced observer, Riedel,
are of a profligate disposition, and prefer almost any
stranger to their own mate” (pp. 418-419). I myself
had once a pigeon of this feather, and so marked was
her personality, and really and strangely profligate her
acts, that I have never forgotten her. Again we have:
*c<Sir R. Heron states that the hens have frequently
great preference to a particular peacock. They were
all so fond of an old pied cock that one year, when
he was confined, though still in view, they were con-
stantly assembled close to the trellis-walls of his prison,
and would not suffer a japaned peacock to touch them.
On his being let out in the autumn, the oldest of the
hens instantly courted him, and was successful in her

courtship. The next year he was shut up in a stable,
i

274 THE BIRD WATCHER

and then the hens all courted his rival.’ Female birds
not only exert a choice, but in some few cases they
court the male and even fight together for his posses-
sion. (I, however, would demur to the word “few”
and ask how much we really know about it.) Sir R.
Feron states that with pea-fowl the first advances are
always made by the female; something of the same
kind takes place, according to Audubon, with the
older females of the wild turkey. With the caper-
cailzie the females flit round the male whilst he is
parading at one of the places of assemblage, and
solicit his attention” (pp. 418-419). What is this if
not a double courtship? And the male capercailzie,
if I remember rightly, is capricious in his selection
of the hens. Again: “ Mr. Bartlett believes that the
lophophorus, like many other gallinaceous birds, is
naturally polygamous, but two females cannot be
placed in the same cage with a male, as they fight
so much together” (p. 420). Finally we have this:
“The following instance of rivalry is more surprising
as it relates to bullfinches, which usually pair for life.
Mr. Jenner Weir introduced a dull-coloured and
ugly female into his aviary, and she immediately
attacked another mated female so unmercifully that
the latter had to be separated. The new female did
all the courtship, and was at last successful, for she
paired with the male; but after a time she met with a
just retribution, for, ceasing to be pugnacious, she was
replaced by the old female, and the male then deserted
his new and returned to his old love” (p. 420).

IN THE SHETLANDS 275

How ill do such facts as the above accord with the
theory that the male bird is too eager to exercise
choice in regard to the female. Darwin also (p. 420)
adduces evidence to show that the domestic cock
prefers the younger to the older hens; that the male
pheasant, when hybridised with the fowl, has the
opposite taste, “is most capricious in his attachments,
and, from some inexplicable cause, shows the most
determined aversion to certain hens”; that some hens
are quite unattractive, even to the males of their own
species ; and that, with the long-tailed duck, certain
females are much more courted than the rest, of
which last state of things I have, if I mistake not,
seen a hint with the eider-duck. Again, then, what
becomes of the supposed indiscriminate eagerness
of the male? Has not this theory been accepted too
unreservedly, and on a too slender foundation of
evidence?

It is significant that most of the above-quoted
observations were made on birds in confinement, or
under domestication, in which states, of course, they
are very much easier to watch. Of the intimate
domestic habits of birds—that is to say, of most birds
—in a wild state, we know, I believe, very little, and
have assumed very much. I might give here two
cases—l have elsewhere given some instances—of
what appeared to me to be violent rivalry on the part
of hen blackbirds; but I refer again to what I have
noticed in regard to the nuptial habits of those sea-
birds, the bright interior colouring of whose mouths

276 THE BIRD WATCHER

I have drawn attention to, and endeavoured to ac-
count for.

To recapitulate. As the theory of sexual selection
supposes that the one sex has been adorned and made
beautiful in accordance with the taste and choice
of the opposite one during the love season, we might
expect that amongst those birds where the males are
beautiful and the females plain, the more active part
in courtship would be taken by the former ; for this
is the very road along which such beauty must have
been gained. On the other hand, if the females had
been equally ardent they would have arrived, by the
same road, at the same, or a similar, goal. Therefore,
in the above cases we ought to be prepared to find
what we do find. But when the sexes, whether
beautiful or not, resemble one another, there is not
the same reason for supposing that the male alone
actively courts, and since, in such cases, it is very
difficult to tell by actual observation whether this is so,
or not, we really know very little about the matter.
Instead of knowing, we assume, and of two birds,
either of which may be, as far as outward appearance
goes, either the male or the female, that one which
we see pursuing or paying court to the other 1s
always the male in our eyes. Yet even amongst
those species where the male alone is adorned, court-
ing on the part of the female is by no means unknown,
and rival hens sometimes fight for the cock. How
much more, therefore, is this likely to be the case
where the sexes are alike, and where, consequently,

IN THE SHETLANDS Dafa

as already explained, there is not the same primd facie
probability of one only (the male) having been selected!

The fact that both the male and female of various
birds of this class utter the same cries, and indulge in
the same antics, during the nuptial season, is some
evidence that either sex tries to please—z.e. courts—
the other ; for similar actions and utterances must be
taken as implying a similar psychology—they are not
like colours or markings—and we cannot, therefore,
conceive of them as being merely transmitted, by the
laws of inheritance, through the male to the female,
and having a mental significance only in the case
of the former, or conversely. A bad constitution—
the result of intemperance—might descend through
the father to the temperate daughter; but if the
habit of drinking be also inherited, so must the flaw
in the character, of which it is the outcome.

If we admit that certain antics (or cries) common to
both sexes of certain birds, have had a like origin in
the case of either, then, if by such common actions
some common beauty is displayed, it is unreasonable
to think that this has been acquired through the action
of sexual selection in the case of the one sex (the
male) and not in the case of the other (the female), for
where the psychology and actions are the same, the
laws governing them must be the same, and their
effects the same.

The above considerations, enforced as they have
been by much that I have myself observed, make me
doubt whether the view that where any species of bird

278 THE BIRD WATCHER

has come under the influence of sexual selection, it is
the one sex only—almost always the male—that has
been modified by its action, isacorrectone. Itseems
to me more probable that where the sexes are alike, or
where they differ markedly, and are both handsome,
each of them has acquired such beauty as it possesses
in accordance with the taste and choice of the opposite
one. Darwin, though he did not consider this prob-
able, yet recognised its possibility, as the following
passage will show: “It may be suggested that in
some cases a double process of selection has been
carried on: that the males have selected the more
attractive females, and the latter the more attractive
males. This process, however, though it might lead
to the modification of both sexes, would not make the
one sex different from the other, unless, indeed, their
tastes for the beautiful differed ; but this is a supposi-
tion too improbable to be worth considering in the
case of any animal excepting man. There are, how-
ever, many animals in which the sexes resemble each
other, both being furnished with the same ornaments,
which analogy would lead us to attribute to the agency
of sexual selection. In such cases it may be sug-
gested with more plausibility that there has been a
double or mutual process of sexual selection, the more
vigorous and precocious females selecting the more
attractive and vigorous males, the latter rejecting all
except the more attractive females. But from what
we know of the habits of animals this view is hardly
probable, for the male is generally eager to pair with

IN THE SHETLANDS 279

any female. It is more probable that the ornaments
common to both sexes were acquired by one sex,
generally the male, and then transmitted to the off-
spring of both sexes.”?

I have given my reasons for doubting whether this
last hypothesis really is more probable than the other
one of a double process of sexual selection—at any
rate as far as birds are concerned: and I suggest
that, in their case, the whole question of the relations
of the sexes to one another should be reconsidered
after much more careful observation, especially in
regard to those species where the male and female are
alike, or where they differ markedly, and are both
handsome. As to the possibility of the taste for the
beautiful differing in the two sexes of any bird or
animal, I cannot see why this should not sometimes
be the case. One sex is attracted only by the beauty
of the opposite one, so that if, owing to slight con-
stitutional differences between them, the variations
which occurred in the one were somewhat different to
those which occurred in the other (which hardly seems
very unlikely), these might be selected and “added
up’ —to use Darwin’s expression—along two gradually
diverging lines, and this would lead, insensibly and
necessarily, to divergence of taste as between the male
and the female. The law is for the one sex to admire
what it gets in the other. Therefore, supposing indi-
vidual differences in both, and a choice in regard to
them on the opposite side, taste, in each case, must be

1 Descent of Man, pp. 225-226.

280 THE BIRD WATCHER

guided by the variations offered for it to work upon ;
and though the final result of this, if such variations
were affected by sex, might appear very surprising,
there would be nothing remarkable in the process by
which it had been arrived at. Must not, in fact, a
difference of taste as between the two sexes—and that
often a very decided one—in any case exist? For the
male bird of paradise, let us say, is attracted by the
dull hen, whilst she, presumably, admires only the
resplendent cock. Beauty is only a relative term, and
even the plainest bird possesses a good deal of it. We
may, of course, say that it is only the hen bird, in
such cases, which can be said to admire, but it would
be difficult, I think, to defend this view. Both are
sexually excited, and the eye is a channel for both.
These, then, are my arguments in favour of a
process of intersexual selection in nature, and I think
that those men, at any rate, who grant taste and choice
to female animals, should be prepared to grant it, also,
to their own sex, though the thinking woman, perhaps,
may be expected to take another view. But, of course,
I know that there are still numbers of people who do
not accept the theory—or, as I would prefer to call it,
the fact—of sexual selection at all, even in its nar-
rower scope. I believe, however, that the chariness
and hesitation which has been shown in adopting the
latter of Darwin’s two great principles, is a survival of
that attitude of mind which caused such opposition to
his whole teaching. Man’s body is one thing, but his
mind—especially all those supposed high things in it

IN THE SHETLANDS 281

which we call, together, spirituality—is quite another.
It offends our human pride to think that animals
should woo and marry very much as we—when the
better part of our nature is not in a strait-jacket—do
ourselves. Therefore, there must be no preferences,
no love-matches here, all must be in obedience to a
blind sexual instinct—something very animal—about
which we, of course, with our rings and our cere-
monies, our novels, sonnets, spiritual affinities, and
prudential considerations, know nothing. Unlike
ourselves, the female brute must be ready to mate
with any male brute that chance may throw in her
way, and if it throw several, she must be absolutely
impartial between them, there being neither looks,
soul, nor money for her to found a choice on.
Therefore she will go to the strongest, and ask no
better, for love she knows not, nor can parental
authority and filial obedience combine here to give the
preference to riches or title, coupled with age or
disease. Only by her complete passivity could the
female brute be properly differentiated from the
human female, and this she must be, or man (the
worst brute that the world has yet seen or is ever
likely to see) would lose his pre-eminence.

But do no difficulties attend this theory of entire
impartiality on the part of the hen bird (for we will
keep now to birds) in respect to the cock, during the
pairing season? ‘That she is sexually excited by him
—as a male, at least, if not as an individual male—we
would surely have to conclude, even in the absence

282 THE BIRD WATCHER

of direct evidence, for how otherwise could the breed-
ing be accomplished? Then what a most extra-
ordinary thing it would be if she were excited in
precisely the same degree—not one jot or tittle more
_ or less—by any one male as by any other! Whatever
the nature of that sexual appeal may be which every
cock makes to every hen, and by virtue of which she
feels that he zs a cock, and not a hen like herself,
why should we suppose that any two individuals
should be more exactly alike in it than they are in
anything else? But if there is not this absolute
unity, then there is difference, and such difference
in the degree of the sexual charm flung out by each
male, must produce preference and choice in the female.
The whole theory of evolution is based upon the
undisputed and indisputable fact of individual varia-
bility ; nor is there any one thing or quality, bodily
or mental—amongst the higher animals at least—that
does not vary largely in the different individuals
possessing it. As it appears to me, therefore, choice
in the one sex with regard to the other is what might
have been, on @ priori considerations, expected ;
though I can well understand that, as amongst our-
selves, it would often be held in abeyance, or nullified,
by the operation of higher—that is to say, more
inexorable—laws, and also that its manifestations
would often be too subtle and hidden for us to follow
them. But we first, in deference to our human
prejudices, assume something which is improbable
in itself, and then obstinately resist a mass of the

IN THE SHETLANDS 283

most striking evidence which shows our assump-
tion to be wrong. In all intellectual and spiritual
qualities, man, by the laws of evolution, may have
greatly outdistanced his fellow animals ; but it should
never be forgotten that in judging of how far this
has been the case, we—and there is no other court—
are the most partial and prejudiced judges—dishonest,
blinded, full of assumptions, delighting to deceive
ourselves, and miserably vain.

If female birds are really so apathetic and male
ones so equally satisfied with any partner they can
get, it seems difficult to see on what principle the
two, when paired, remain constant to one another
during the nesting season, and still more, perhaps,
why numbers of birds pair for life. Such a state
of things ought, one would think, to lead to pro-
miscuous intercourse. But if birds mate by prefer-
ence and elective affinity, such constancy is what one
might expect. What we want, however, to settle this
and all other questions relating to the habits of
animals is long, close, hard, exhaustive observation—
real observation as distinct from mere writing, and
even from good literature. There is wofully little
of this, in my opinion, and none the less so because
an impression exists that there is a great deal.

CHAPTER XxXxXIl
AN ALL-DAY SITTING

PX OTHES all-day sitting with the seals. From

the edge of the cliffs in the morning, and in the
same pool by which I had sat all yesterday, I saw a
creature which I] at first thought was a seal of the
common kind, then—for it began to look larger—that
it was the bottle-nosed one, but which soon proved
foibe neither the sonewnor the other einiesizemnG
looked equal to Bottle-nose, if not even larger, but
it had a magnificent skin, the whole of the under-
surface, as well as the sides, being blotched and
spotted black and white, like a leopard’s or jaguar’s,
except that the markings are larger. In heaven's
name, now, what creature is this? Can it be the
sea-leopard that I have often read about, but of
whose habitat, etc., I know nothing till I can look
it up again ?—the state of many a naturalist in regard
to many a species, sometimes, perhaps, but shortly
before he writes a treatise upon it. Upon coming
down, now, and watching it closely, I see that in
shape and general appearance—except for its wonder-
ful skin—it is very like the bottle-nosed seal. Its
body, however, is not so cylindrical, but bulges out
into a greater roundness below the neck and shoulders,
so that its weight may be somewhat greater. Its
nose looks broader, and nearly, if not quite, as long.

284

IN THE SHETLANDS 285

I think, indeed, it is the larger animal of the two.
I can make these comparisons, for both are here
together now, and they continue for hour after hour
to haunt the pool; but whilst he of the bottle-nose
rises always at his long intervals and soon goes down,
the knight of the leopard comes up at as short, or
even shorter ones than the common seal does, and
sometimes stays for a longer time, as witness these
twelve successive appearances, with their correspond-
ing disappearances, which I timed, partly to know, and
partly to feel scientific: from 11.44 to 11.48 ; from
MG tO mI ga aN trom 11.56 to) 12 > trom!) 1214 to
W2eG5 tromy12.7= to 12.11; trom) 12.14) to 12.172 ;
from 12.20 to 12.24 5 from 12.252 to 12-301 ; from
12.32 to 12.3743; from 12.44 to 12.49; from 12.502
(CO) WOKE

Also, though he often pegtops it, he has never yet
pointed his nose straight up into the sky, which my
bottle-nosed seal invariably does. Generally he soon
adopts the horizontal attitude, and continues in it for
the rest of the time he is up. When he goes down,
he rolls round, as well as over—by which I mean both
like a porpoise and like a barrel—and then his spotted,
or rather blotched, belly makes a splendid mosaic
under the water, for it is not only itself, which were
enough of beauty, but the most lovely glaucous
ereen is flung upon it, through which, all glorified,
the pattern appears. A magnificent sight! ‘The very
phenix!” Poor Bottle-nose is quite eclipsed.

This great beauty of the skin—which, strange to

286 THE BIRD WATCHER

say, instead of being invisible was most conspicuously
apparent—can only, I think, have been gained through
sexual selection, and its being confined to the belly
and sides may bear some relation to the habits of the
animal. Suppose that this one is the male, then does
his leopardess look up at him as he rolls in blubberly
grace and barrel-like symmetry above her, or, since he
swims with equal ease upon his back or belly, has the
fair, portly expanse of the latter made it the principal
area of decoration? Does he offer it as a carpet to
her when she goes abroad, saying ““Swim upon me,”
or display it over her as a banner, crying “ Be these
thy colours!” or, in swift circumvolution, does he
enmesh and entwine her with it, playing about her
like a stout coruscation, as the two swim together
through grots, and caves, and pebbled halls, and cool
groves of golden-brown seaweed? All this is the
secret of the deep; but there is the belly, and it fires
the imagination.

Iam now sure that it was this great and glorious
sea-leopard, and not the other large seal, that | first
saw lying on the seaweed, and I had hoped it might
have done so again as the tide went out. But
I was again disappointed. As before, little of this
deep-growing seaweed was exposed by the tide, nor
did either of the two lie on the rock itself, or on any
other one. Neither did the common seal come this
time, whereas, in the adjoining cove, there was the
accustomed complement. This one seems the haunt
par excellence of these two superior creatures, but,

IN THE SHETLANDS 287

very unlike the common seal, they are always in the
water.

I have now satisfied myself that the young guille-
mot is petted, sometimes, by birds that are not its
parents. The facts are as follows: having watched the
seals till past five, I determined to explore a little, and
walked out along the promontory which forms the
opposite side of this little Shetland fiord, and the end
of which, except for the outlying stacks, must be
about the most northern point of that portion of the
British Empire which imperialists care least about—
I mean the British Isles. Here I found some more
guillemot and kittiwake ledges, and on one of these
were some half a dozen of the former birds, one being
a young one. The latter was with its parents, on
a place which, though it seemed to project but a
hair’s breadth, was yet the safest part of the ledge,
which was very narrow and dangerous-looking. Here
I left him for a very short time, to get further down
the rocks, but on my return I found he had left this
comparatively secure place and was now right away,
on what, but for a very slight slanting slope, with
a giddy projection here and there, looked like the
sheer face of the precipice. No bird was with it: the
chick was evidently in distress, and now, for the first
time, I heard a little sharp note proceeding from it,
which really did sound something like the word
Scullion <coutllyes some feet above where the
chick was, but separated from it by a fearfully steep
and dangerous face of rock, another guillemot sat on

288 THE BIRD WATCHER

a ridge, which it almost covered. The chick made
several efforts to scale this mauvais pas, failed as many
times, but at last, with manifest danger to its poor
little life, got up it, and stood by this bird, on the
tiny ridge. The latter immediately stood up also, and
bent over it, jode/-ing, and cossetting it with its beak.
Here, then, it seemed evident, was one of the parents.
But now there appeared, pressing forward amongst
others, on that part of the cliff where the chick had
been, an eye-marked bird who seemed to be much
excited. She made her way along to near the place
from which the chick had scrambled up, and, as one
may say, called it down to her, though I heard no cry,
for it followed her back along that fearfully steep and
dangerous place, having now always to climb down
instead of up, until, at last, it was back on the ledge
where it had, at first, been sitting, and which, com-
pared to where it had strayed to, looked almost safe.
Could I give all the details of this fearful journey,
it would make interesting reading, but I sat in rain
and wind, and my hands were so numbed with cold
that I found it difficult to use the glasses, and quite
impossible to take notes. All that I can say now—
this same evening—is that once, in getting down to
its mother, who waited for it at different stages, it did
actually fall and roll head over heels down the rock.
I thought all was over, but it recovered itself on
a tiny projection, seeming none the worse, and, shortly
after, arrived with its mother on the ledge. Here
there were some three or four more birds, and the

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IN THE SHETLANDS 289

chick, as I noticed, now, and several times after-
wards, seemed glad to go to any of them. One it
ran up to, and this bird behaved exactly as the first
one had done, jode/-ing over it, and caressing it with
its bill. Now, if this last bird was the chick’s parent,
the one that had a little before done the same thing,
and still sat in the same place on another part of the
rock, could not also be, for that the eyed bird who
had fetched it away must have been either its father
or mother, is a thing indubitable, not only by reason
of that one act, but also on account of its general
conduct both before and afterwards. One, therefore,
of the two birds that caressed the chick must have
been a stranger to it, but the fact is that both were,
for whilst the last that had done so was still on the
ledge, and but shortly afterwards, in flew a bird from
the sea with a fish in his bill, and fed the chick. Now,
I cannot, as far as eyesight goes, affirm that this
bird was not the one that the chick had first gone to,
and by whom it had been kindly received ; but that
one of a pair of guillemots should sit for a long time,
not only by itself, but far removed from the chick
and the other one, and that afterwards, when the chick
had gone to it, this other one, its own mate, should
excitedly fetch it away, is a thing quite out of accord-
ance with all I have yet seen of the domestic relations
of these birds. It is true that, in this case, a motive
can be imagined for the chick’s excursion, but whilst
my later observations have shown me that, as the

chick gets older, it does move about, I have never
U

290 THE BIRD WATCHER

known it trouble about an absent parent whilst it had
one by it. I have never, that I remember, seen the
chick seek to be fed before one or other of its dams
had flown in with a fish, and I attribute the anxiety
which this one showed to reach the bird in question,
to its distress at finding itself in so precarious a
situation. In this, however, I may be wrong, but
since it is beyond doubt that one stranger bird
caressed the chick, it 1s not very essential to prove
that another did. The likelihood is that one would
be as willing to as another, and | did, indeed, notice
that all the birds on the ledge to which the chick was
brought back, seemed to take a kindly interest in it,
especially another white-eyed one, which the mother
several times drove away from it—being jealous, as
I suppose. The state of affairs appeared to me to be
this, that all the birds had a tender feeling towards the
chick, that the chick, if left to itself} was inclined to
go to any one of them, and that whatever one it did
go to was ready to jode/ over it, and caress it. Not
having been able to note down every little thing at the
time, I cannot now give the general evidence on
which this impression was founded, but I have re-
counted the special incidents.

An interesting question arises here—at least it
seems interesting to me. Is the conduct that we
have been considering the result of mistake or con-
fusion on the part of either the grown birds or the
chick—or of both of them—or does it spring from an
extension of sympathy in the one, and of Kinderliese,

IN THE SHETLANDS 291

or cupboard-love, in the other? Personally, I believe
that both of these two latter brain-processes have to
do in producing the result in question, but that the
first—a tenderness, namely, on the part of the old
birds—is the preponderating influence. We must re-
member that all these childless birds upon the ledges
—and when I first came the ledges were crowded—
must have had children with them only a short time
ago. When, therefore, a chick runs suddenly up to
them, just as their own chick used to, I can under-
stand a train of recent memories being so strongly
revived as to cause them to act as they do. I did,
in fact, to my own senses, notice something in the
manner of these non-parent birds thus acting parentally
—in a certain degree, that is to say-—_which was differ-
ent to that of the true parents. A certain surprise, I
thought, was exhibited at first, and then the bird
seemed to fall into the old train of things. If, indeed,
as Iam much inclined to believe, the mere bringing
of a fish to the ledge may raise, for a time, in the
mind of the bird that brings it, the hallucinatory
image or impression of a chick that is not there, it is
not wonderful that the actual running up to it of
a chick not its own, should cause it to feel and act as
though it were the true parent.

What, then, has been the origin of sympathy? Even
amongst ourselves, to feel with a person (avy 7raQos) is
to feel very much as though one were that person,
and the effort of reason which assures us to the
contrary might well be beyond the power of an

292 THE BIRD WATCHER

animal. Indeed, when we think of what all children
can pretend, and what many grown-up people believe,
we should not expect too much of birds. The guille-
mot, we will say, upon seeing a young bird which, by
calling up memories, takes the place of its own,
becomes, in imagination, its parent—so that the
sympathy it shows for it is not wider than that
between parent and child. In other cases the feelings
aroused in an animal when it sees, let us say, one
of its fellows subjected to suffering or danger which it
has been accustomed, itself, to fear and shun, may
relate to itself only, so that any apparently sympathetic
actions arising out of them would be due to that
failure to distinguish between what is in the mind
and what is outside of it (subjective and objective)
that has often been remarked in savages—or, if not
remarked, is at least attributed to them. Of this
hypothesis I have given one illustration, and others
may be easily imagined.

Do we become mote, or less, sympathetic as we get
more civilised? ‘Two people who think and feel
alike are said to be in sympathy, and the more primi-
tive and uniform the conditions of life are, the more
must those who live together under them think and
feel alike. The process of advance may be a process
of the more complete separation and realisation of
one’s own distinctive personality, and though reason
and self-interest produce a higher power and degree
of combination amongst civilised men than the state
of animals, or the savage state of man, permits of, yet

IN THE SHETLANDS 2.93

we must ask ourselves if, where it can and does exist
amongst the latter, it is not of a more spontaneous
and vigorous character, and if there is not more real
sympathy attached to it. Where, for instance, can
such perfect combination be found as amongst social
insects—bees, wasps, ants, etc.—the conditions of
whose existence are far simpler and more uniform
than ours? And in what deep feelings of sympathy
——Or, aS we may say, oneness—must blood-feuds
have had their origin? If it is true that the sym-
pathies of some civilised men have become widened
so as to embrace humanity at large, and even the
lower animals, is it not equally true that a// civilised
men stand more cut off from their immediate neigh-
bours than do savages, because, owing to an increased
diversity of individual character, consequent upon
more diverse and complex conditions, they less
resemble them? If so, though in one sense man
may be said to sympathise more and more as he
advances in culture, in another sense, and perhaps
the truer one, he does so less and less; for as the
river has widened it has become less deep, and the
current less strong. Heine makes this same com-
parison in some interesting remarks upon the inhabi-
tants of the Isle of Nordeney, which, as they exactly
and felicitously express my meaning, I will here quote,
albeit in a clumsy translation: “What links these
men so fastly and inwardly together is not so much a
mystic bond of love, as habit, the daily necessary
living in each other’s life, a common shared simplicity.

294 THE BIRD WATCHER

The same spiritual width, or rather narrowness, issues
in the same strivings and longings, whilst unity of
ideas and experience makes mutual sympathy an easy
matter. So they sit cosily by the fire in their little
cabins, drawn close together against the cold, and, as
they turn to speak, see their own thoughts in each
other’s eyes, read their own words, before they speak
them, on each other’s lips. Every life-memory, every
life-experience, is a common possession, and with a
tone, a look, a gesture, a silent motion, as much of
joy, sorrow, or reflection is aroused in their bosoms
as we can bring about through long expositions and
spluttering declamations. For we live, in great part,
mentally alone. Owing to different lines of education,
to a different choice of reading—often accidentally
stumbled on—difference, rather than sameness, of
character has been developed amongst us. Each one
of us, with masked spirit, thinks, feels, and strives in
a lonely atmosphere of his own, and miscompre-
hensions are so many, and at-oneness, even in one
household, is so rare, and we are everywhere cramped,
everywhere repulsed, and everywhere strangers to
each others:

This is just my idea, and though I had read Heine
before I watched guillemots, I yet believe that my
watching them has suggested it to me quite independ-
ently, for the passage quoted never came into my
head till afterwards. Let us not, therefore, be too
proud, for though there may, here and there among
us, be a philosopher who feels himself able to sym-

IN THE SHETLANDS 295

pathise with, say the Chinese-—or a Chinese one with
us—yet neither such philosophers, nor any of us,
have that pleasant feeling of almost Jeing one another
which these islanders of Nordeney, or any tribe of
simple-lived savages, or even, perhaps, some social
animals, enjoy. So far from civilisation being altru-
istic in its tendencies, it appears to me (just at this
moment) that by making the units more and more
unlike each other, it fosters egotism and makes real
sympathy harder. |

I have as yet only speculated upon the feelings of
the grown guillemots when they /é/e a chick that is
not their own. Those of the chick are, I think,
easier to understand. Its love for its parents is cup-
board love ; it is equally ready to be looked after by
any other bird, and, if hungry and not fed, it will
apply elsewhere. With what degree of accuracy it
distinguishes its parents from the other birds on the
ledge, I have not yet made up my mind; but I think
it much depends upon the efforts of the parents
themselves.

Besides the incidents which I have related, I noticed
some other interesting points. Both the chick and
the parents seemed ill at ease. The former did not
seek to go to sleep, nor did the latter offer the wing.
Often it struck me that one of the parents was on the
point of doing something in regard to the chick, and,
what was more curious, it also struck me that the
other birds were restless, too, and that they, too, had
designs upon, or, at least, felt an unusual interest in,

aw

296 THE BIRD WATCHER

the chick. In especial, a second white-eyed bird came
several times up to it with an important air, but also
with a curious, hesitating action, and an expression as
though in doubt what to do. The other white-eyed
one would then bustle up in much the same way,
causing the first to retreat; but after a little while,
the two being exactly alike, I became quite bewildered,
and could not possibly say which was and which was
not the parent—a good evidence, I think, of the
similarity of their behaviour. All this, and many
other little things which struck me at the time, but
which I could not then note down, and have now
forgotten, convinced me that the flight from the
ledge would not be long delayed. Though miserably
uncomfortable, therefore, I waited and waited, in hopes
to see it; but it grew late, the sun had sunk, and
as I had a steep ascent to make, with some amount of
climbing even before I came to it, it would not do to
stay longer. Cliffs like these are not to be ascended
in the dark—at least, not by me. To-morrow I feel
quite certain that the birds will be gone.

CEA hy xX TH
THREE MURDERERS

GONE they are. The ledges are quite bare—not

a bird to be seen there—nothing but the spray
and the wild winds to love them now. It was what
I had expected, had been sure of; but again I felt
bitter disappointment. It is more than disappoint-
ment——a sadness and emptiness of heart at finding
these accustomed tenants, that have for days given
life and beauty and domestic happiness to the desolate
frowning precipice, gone, and their known places
void. How I miss them! I retract now what I
said before about wild creatures giving no relief to
the sense of solitude. These guillemots did, I be-
lieve, and I feel lonelier now without them. And so,
whilst I lay warm under the bedclothes, were you, you
little mite of a guillemot—but stay, I have apostro-
phised you once already, and am not going to do it
again. :

There was rain, mist, and wind extraordinary to-
day, but the sea dashed finely over the rocks. The
pool, though a haven, was often seething, yet I saw
Bottle-nose, and, later, a common seal, in it. The
latter was the only one I watched. He came up at
intervals of a few minutes only, and, as on former
occasions, always rose perpendicularly in the water,
with his nose pointed to the sky. In this position he

297

298 THE BIRD WATCHER

remained all the while he was up—which was never
more than a minute—and then sank without altering
it, differing in this last respect from the two larger
seals, which always went down with a porpoise-like
roll. His eyes were shut all the while, even when
he went down, but still I supposed that, once beneath
the surface, he was accustomed to swim away and
enter upon some active employment “under the
glassy, cool, translucent wave”: the line, indeed
—which, by the way, with its exquisite context, is
not to be found in that overpraised pert piece of
ex cathedra dictation, The Golden Treasury—for the
gold non olet, but out on its many omissions and at
least one vile, prudish mutilation !—hardly suits such
a pot-boil as this haven now is; but it is always un-
troubled in the deeps. But I was deceived in this
supposition, for once he came sufficiently near to the
great bulk of rock where I was lying for me to see
him ‘for some’ time before he rose); ‘and, tol my
surprise, | saw that he was floating in just the same
attitude, and just as quiescently. As he came up his
eyes were fast closed, so that I think he must have
been dozing, or sleeping, like this, under the water,
all the while, yet rising——-perhaps automatically—at
the requisite intervals. The common seal, if it be
not as nocturnal as the cat tribe, from which it may
have descended, is certainly a very great sleeper.

The eye of the puffin is, by virtue of its setting,
almost as marked a feature as the beak itself. First
it is surrounded by a ring of naked skin, much

IN THE SHETLANDS 299

resembling the feet in colour—of an orange-red, that
is to say—and just within this ring there is a dot
at one point of the iris, and a straight line at the
other, both of which are really of a bluish or slaty
hue, but have the appearance of being black. This
line and dot form the base and apex respectively of
a sort of little triangle, the sides of which are formed
by a deep depression in the skin, and within it the
eye is framed like a little miniature, and, as is some-
times the case with pictures, partly encroached upon
by the frame, so that its circular shape is interfered
with. The effect of the whole—for all these details
blend together, and can only be distinguished with the
glasses—is that the bird seems to have a triangular
eye, and this bizarre appearance is heightened by
another, and much deeper, line, or fold, in the feathers,
which runs back from the base of the triangle till
it meets, or tries to meet, the black feathers of the
head and neck, in a little delta between the two.
Hardly less wonderful] than the eye are the cheeks—
if one may call them so—those two sharply defined
oval surfaces of light, shining grey, so smooth and
polished that they do not suggest feathers at all, but
look much more like little veneered panels of fancy
woodwork, let into a framework of ebony. To
all this the beak has been added, to give full and
crowning effect to the idea that governed at the
puffin’s making, which was that it should be “as
remarkable a figure of a bird as any in our country,”
or elsewhere.

300 THE BIRD WATCHER

I have sometimes wondered if the fish which the
puffin catches so deftly, and then carries home, a dozen
at a time, are paralysed at the sight of it. If a shoal
of sand-eels fainted, and lay strewed about the bottom
of the sea, it would then be easy for their enemy
to pick them up one after the other, pack them
securely, and get a firm grip on all of them before
they began to revive and wriggle. At least, it ought
to be easier; but how the bird chases and catches
each in succession, without losing those it has already
caught, and which lie in a row across its beak, it
is not so easy to see. I have sometimes, I believe,
made out a dozen, at the least—all sand-eels—
closely wedged together along the cleft of the
mandibles, their heads and tails hanging down on
either side of the lower one. Perhaps, however, the
difficulty is not so great as it seems to be—of under-
standing it, of course, I mean; it is no doubt easy
enough for the bird to do. My theory, at any rate,
of its modus operandi is this. The first sand-eel is, no
doubt, passed to the base of the mandibles, and being
firmly wedged against the membrane that unites
them, I suppose that they are finally closed upon it.
Were they opened again, at all widely, to catch the
next and subsequent ones, there would be a danger of
as many as were already there either escaping by their
own efforts, or being floated out owing to the pressure
of the water. But the beak of the puffin, though
broad and leaf-like in its shape, is sharply tipped, and
by opening it but a little, and pressing the fish against

IN THE SHETLANDS 301

the bottom, the bird could no doubt pinch up the
skin so as to get a secure hold of it. The various
little tactile movements of the mandibles upon the
fish, by which the latter would be first grasped
between, and then passed carefully down them, to
lie against the one last caught, can be pretty well
imagined, and they could be very effectively aided by
the rubbing or pressing of it, on either side, against
the sand, rocks, stones, etc., of the bottom. It must
be remembered, too, that the mandibles open like a
scissors, so as to be wider apart at the tips than at
the base, which would diminish the difficulty ; and
moreover, each fish is so deeply indented by the sharp,
cutting blades—which, however, do not seem to pierce
the skin—that, although alive—reflecting possibly on
the beauty of maternal affection—they would be likely
to “cleave to their mould” like putty, for a little
while after the pressure were relaxed.

] think that the broad, blade-like bill of the puffin
has to do with this power that the bird possesses of
holding many fish at a time, and that the razorbill,
whose beak is of the same type, and who bites the
fish across in just the same way, is in the habit of
doing so also. Be this as it may, the guillemot,
whose bill is quite differently shaped, holds the fish,
as a rule, in a different manner, longitudinally, namely,
with the head towards the throat, and the tail droop-
ing over to one side. This is not invariable; but I
have never myself seen a bird bring in more than one
fish ata time. It is the same, I think, with the black

302 THE BIRD WATCHER

guillemot, at least in this latter respect, but I have
seen much less of it than the other. Unless, how-
ever, it be supposed more difficult to catch and hold
many fish than many insects, there is no reason why
the puffin should be singled out for wonder in this
respect. The water wagtail, when feeding its young,
fills its bill with insects, which it catches, not only on
the ground, but flying also—a great feat, surely—
and the lesser spotted woodpecker brings a similar
assortment to the nesting-tree. I believe myself that
most insect-eating birds do the same whilst feeding
their family, unless when they catch an insect sufh-
ciently large to be a host in itself.

What a whirr of pinions, and fine wild chase
beneath the beetling precipice, and out to sea! It was
the Arctic skua, pursuing, this time, a black guillemot,
no doubt ev route for its young. They went so fast—
the skua with the swoop of a peregrine falcon-——that
I could only just follow the smaller bird, but I caught
its white wing-patches, so am sure it was not a puffin.
Half-way out of the cove the guillemot must have
dropped its fish, for its pursuer descended, and hung
hovering over the water, seemingly embarrassed, and
without alighting upon it. This, at first sight, seems
evidence in favour of the theory that the skua, unless
it succeeds in catching the spoil before it touches the
sea, will have nothing to do with it ; but as a herring-
gull now flew up, and behaved in the same way, the
more legitimate inference is that both birds were
looking for what neither of them could see, and that

IN THE SHETLANDS 303
the fish, being alive, as it probably would be, had, by

a remarkable conjunction of two lucky accidents,
escaped. But, on the other hand, would the herring-
gull have dared to interfere with the skua -—which it
would have been doing, were the latter in the habit of
picking up the fish from the water. On other occa-
sions I have seen the skua fly off as soon as he had
missed his swoop, and I have once seen a herring-gull
following the chase, with a view, as seemed obvious,
_ to such a contingency. This happened on the island,
so that I remember it quite plainly, though, what with
one thing and another, it got crowded out of my
notes. J was, however, much interested at the time,
for it pointed to a possibility of a further and more
complex development of these curious parasitic rela-
tions ; for why should not gulls become, in time, the
constant attendants of such chases as these, on the
off-chance merely of the skua failing to get the fish
that he had forced the bird he was chasing to drop?
Here would be a secondary act of piracy grown out
of the first and more direct one.

Herring-eulls—they are much the commonest
species here—seem now to feed a good deal on the
floating carcases of young kittiwakes, so I think it
likely that the bird I twice saw doing this before, and
took each time for a grown kittiwake, was really a
herring-gull. It was at some distance, and I jumped
to a conclusion without taking the trouble to verify
it. But are these young kittiwakes first killed by the
gulls, or found dead by them merely? As to this I

304 THE BIRD WATCHER

can say nothing, except that I have not yet seen such
an attack made—which is not much.

In the last two or three days I have pretty well
demonstrated that seals, when they lie on the rocks, in
company, do not post sentinels. In descending the
cliffs, I have several times alarmed one or more out of
the ten or a dozen that have lain on the great, slant-
ing slab where they rendezvous; but their retreat,
more or less precipitate, has not induced the others
to a like course. Some have looked about a little, but
remained where they were, whilst the greater number
have lain in fancied—and this time real—security.
It may be said that the seals which took to the water
need not have been the sentinels, but this is an
argumenium ad absurdum, since a sentinel that neither
saw danger itself, nor gave the signal when it saw
others in a state of alarm, would be no good.

For me, therefore, seals do not post sentries, at
least not in these seas, but it does not necessarily follow
that they may not do so in others where they are
more persecuted by man, and preyed on by polar-
bears. Whether this has been asserted, or not, I do
not know, but I dare swear it has been, for sportsmen,
besides that they draw very hasty inferences, like to
get full credit for their miserable triumphs over brute
intelligence. ‘Take this very matter of sentinel-post-
ing. It has been lightly made, and far too lightly
credited. If you have a herd, or flock, of animals—
say some geese browsing—some must stand on the
outside, which is where we would post sentinels.

IN THE SHETLANDS 305

That is enough for the sportsman. Such individuals
are sentinels, and his skill, consequently, in outwitting
them, something extraordinary. But let him bring
some evidence of this—I mean of the first proposi-
tion ; as for the other—the corollary—we will take it
for granted, sentinels or not. No doubt of the man’s
capabilities. He can set his wit to a goose’s, and
shame, or cry quits, with it—but was the goose really
so extremely clever? Was it anything more than a
wary, vigilant bird, that a man of parts might be
expected, sometimes, to get the better of ? I doubt it
extremely—at any rate, 1 doubt the sentry-go. When
one comes to think of it, the systematic tailing off of
one, or some, particular members of a band of animals,
to warn the others in the event of danger, is a very
high act of collective intelligence ; and nothing short
of this amounts to anything. That the first animal
who takes alarm should utter a cry, and thus warn the
rest, is a very different matter. These seals did not
even do this, though the ones who saw me, and took
to the water, must have associated my presence with
danger. Of this I have now had another example,
for in ascending the cliff, one out of two seals lying
close together on a small rock saw me and went off.
The other had not seen me, but evidently felt uneasy,
owing to the haste and abrupt motions of his com-
panion. Nevertheless, he took some time to make up
his mind, and was on the rock, I should say, about
two minutes after the other had left: whereas, had this

latter communicated his alarm to him by any recog-
Xx

306 THE BIRD WATCHER

nised signal, he would have been in the water almost
at the same time. On the great slab itself ten seals
were lying as I began to go up, but one went off whilst
I sat quiet, without observing me. This left nine,
and, of these, two saw me as I scrambled up an
exposed ridge, and went off, whilst the other seven
slumbered on.

As far as I can see, therefore, there was no communi-
cation of intelligence between these seals. Hach acted
for himself, and without thought of the others. I have
noticed the same thing often with birds, and on the
whole I cannot help thinking that, in a loose sort of
way, wild animals are often credited with acting in a
more highly organised manner than they really do,
and that a too intelligent interpretation is often put
upon their actions. When, for example, a bird, scent-
ing danger, flies off, with a cry that warns all the
others (though it frequently does so in silence), it
does not follow that it was thinking of those others,
nor can the cry be shown to be a special one until it
has been heard, over and over again, in the same, or
similar, circumstances, but not upon other occasions.
Even then it will often be found to be due to excite-
ment, merely, so that instead of expressing any
definite idea, it but reflects the emotional state of
the individual uttering it—it is the difference between
thinking and feeling. The familiar alarm-note, as it
is called, of the blackbird, is an example of this, for
I have often heard the bird utter it when there has.
been neither fear nor danger—only excitement. Its

IN THE SHETLANDS 307

organism reacts in this way to a certain state, which
may be caused by a variety of incidents, so that no
special, circumstantially limited meaning can attach, in
its mind, to the cry.

I do not say that there are no cries, amongst animals,
which have a certain definite meaning, and no other.
Very possibly there are, and one may, perhaps, perceive
the origin of them ; for if such cries—at first general
—were, in a large majority of cases, consequent upon
a particular state of things, such state of things would
come to be more and more associated with the cry,
though from this to a definite and purposed signal,
given by one and received by many, 1s a very con-
siderable step. But the fact—if it really is one—
ought to be better made out than it is. A sportsman
has only to talk about the leader, a signal, or sentinels,
in regard to any bird or beast, and no one pauses upon
it. It is accepted as though it had dropped from
heaven instead of from the lips of a man whose main
interest lies in killing animals, who is generally most
hasty in drawing inferences about them, and whose
belief in their intelligence pays a compliment to
his own.

The minds of some people must be in a strange
state about animals, I think. They will not allow
that they have reasoning ‘powers, yet find no difficulty
in crediting them with all sorts of actions, schemes,
plans, and arrangements, that seem to demand a quite
human understanding. Perhaps I, who admit the
one, make too much difficulty over the other ; but |

308 THE BIRD WATCHER

like evidence (and plenty of it), and do not take
conviction as proof. More, perhaps, than any other
subject, natural history abounds with statements, the
evidence for which there is often no getting at, or, if
one does get at it, it amounts to very little.

Oh, thou villain gull! What have I not just seen
thee do? But heroics are out of place with animals,
so I will just recount the incident in a staid, sober
way. As, in my ascent of the cliff, 1 came over the
crest of a green peak, a herring-gull flew up from the
ground with something in its bill, which, as it mounted
aloft, I saw to bea young puffin. It hung by the nape
of the neck from the very tip of the gull’s beak, the
legs dangling pitifully down—a pathetic spectacle—
though I could not make out any movement in it,
indicating that it was alive. The gull made for the
sea, and, crossing to one of the great “‘stacks”’ that
stands frowning a little off the shore, mounted high
above it, and then let the puffin fall. Down, down,
down, and down it came, a horrible descent ; and I
seemed to hear the far-off thud, as it struck that cruel
rock. Then, in a second or two afterwards, the gull
came circling down upon it, and began to feed upon
the body, dragging it from this place to that, and
seeming to fear a shag, which came up the stack
towards it. I can hardly think it coveted the morsel,
but I am reminded that I certainly saw another one
with its beak at a dead kittiwake. No doubt, there-
fore, it did, and thus, once again, the fact is driven
home to me that there is no such thing as “always”

“ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE”

IN THE SHETLANDS 309

or “never ” in animal life. As Darwin has most truly
said, every creature is ready to alter its habits, as the
opportunity arises, and the greater number of them
are, in some way or another, always in process of
doing so.

Was the puffin dead when the gull flew up with it?
If it was, then had it found it so, or killed it itself?
Did it drop it on purpose, to kill it, or let it fall by
accident? These questions | am unable to answer ;
but in regard to the two last, gulls are credited here
with letting crabs fall on the rocks, in order to break
their shells. Even if the puffin were dead before,
such a fall, by bursting or bruising the body, might
make it easier to tear open—an operation which the
gull, I believe, had not yet had time to perform.

The whole ground where this gull went up with its
victim—for I have little doubt myself as to what had
taken place—was honeycombed with puffin-burrows,
and troops of puffins stood everywhere about. I sat
down where I had halted, and before long two other
herring-gulls came and stood in the same locality,
close to several of these poor little birds, who, I
thought, seemed embarrassed by their presence, but
powerless to resent it, and perhaps not sufficiently
intelligent to divine its true purport.

The gulls, I thought, had a sort of unpleasant, evil-
boding look ; a sullen, brazen, criminal appearance,
like the two murderers in that scene with Clarence,
just before the duke awakes—but this may have been
partly due to imagination, after what I had just seen,

310 THE BIRD WATCHER

with a late reading of Richard III. | love that play ;
almost more than ambition, perhaps, the keynote
to its hero-villain’s character is to be sought in
his tremendous energy and intellectual activity.
These are so great that they, to a large extent,
guard him against the intolerable anguish of remorse
—that constant attendant on the undiseased evil-
doer—so that he fares better than Macbeth, who is
inferior to Richard in both these respects, and whose
more poetic and sensitive nature is much against _
him. Not that Macbeth is not an energetic and able
man, but he is only normally so, while Richard’s
working qualities are abnormal. His energy, especi-
ally, is more like that of a Napoleon or Julius Cesar.
It is such a mighty and rapidly-moving stream, that,
hurried along by it, he has no leisure to repine. It
floats his crimes easily, one may say, making little
dancing boats of them, whereas those of Macbeth are
like huge vessels in a stream that has hardly volume
enough to bear them. Is it not, in fact, almost im-
possible to feel mental depression, so long as the brain
is very actively employed? It is in the calms and
lulls of this activity that disagreeable reflections force
themselves upon us, just as rain that has been kept
from falling by a violent wind, falls as soon as it sub-
sides. Accordingly, though Richard’s robuster nature
goes almost scot free by day—at least, for a consider-
able time—it becomes the prey of conscience by night,
when the huge energy of his disposition is in abeyance ;
when, in Tennyson’s language, “‘ to sleep he gives his

IN THE SHETLANDS 311

powers away.” This we learn first through his wife
Anne, who has been constantly ‘‘ waked by his timorous
dreams ’’—how strangely sounds the word “timorous”’
used of such a character !—-and later—almost at the
end—from himself, in that one terrifying outburst
which gives the first and only clear view into the
mental torments which this strong villain has to suffer,
as soon as that daytime energy, which is to him as an
armour, is laid aside. Is it not very striking—is it
not the character-touch of this scene, how—when
Richard is once fairly awake again, when the things
of waking life have returned, with Ratcliff at the tent-
door—how quickly this great load of suffering is
shifted off ?

A fortiori Macbeth suffers at night, too, but “zs life
is all suffering. We never get the idea of his enjoy-
ing life, which, with Richard, we really do; for he is
humorous—jocular even—in fact, in tiptop spirits
often, but all by day, during the bustle and action of
an energetic career. Later, the wound of guilt begins
to show itself, and here, too, we may make an in-
structive comparison between these two practitioners
in crime, so alike in their motive and careers, so
different in their fibre and temperament, and yet
yielding to the same law. Macbeth, indeed, suffers
so much that his mind becomes, at last, almost un-
hinged, and, in the very end, conscience, perhaps,
ceases to afflict him. The machine, too delicate for
such rough work, has been broken by repeated blows
—the nerve has throbbed itself out. Shakespearean

R12 THE BIRD WATCHER

parallels are, I think, very interesting and instructive,
but they are seldom dwelt upon.

Thus far out of the path of what I am pledged to
deal in, a fanciful comparison has led me; but I will
go no further. Ne ultra crepidam sutor, etc., though,
to be sure, 1 am no more altogether naturalist than
King Lear’s fool was “altogether fool.” So as, from
king or emperor downwards, I have no respect for
titles, it is not much wonder if I forget now and
again to be subservient to that of my own book.!
Yet to do so is fiddle-de-dee, for books and people
both, in this world, are judged of as they are labelled
—often getting labelled by accident—and though, in
this little excursion into other realms, I have talked
no more nonsense than any literary critic may, with-
out at all committing himself—except fo nonsense,
which doesn’t at all matter—yet I talk it where it
will not be thought sense. To return then—-for your
reviewer bites the thumb at a digression—lI noticed
many other herring-gulls hovering over these puffin-
haunted slopes, and that they live largely upon the
young of these birds, as well as on young kittiwakes,
I do not now doubt. I can see no reason why they
should not lie in wait, and drag the former from
their holes. I must watch for this. This reminds
me of how often I have found the newly-picked
remains of puffins on the cliffs and shore ; but these
were all of full-grown birds. What bird, in especial,

1 But I needn’t have forgotten my own afterthought “—and Digressions.”’
Hurrah! That frees me,

IN THE SHETLANDS 213

is responsible for this? Surely not gulls! And never
having seen a peregrine falcon here, I have got to not
much believe in him. I have seen no sign of such
a thing on the part of the great skuas. The others,
I think, are only robbers, or at least could hardly
kill a puffin, whose beak should be more powerful
than their own. It is somewhat of a mystery to me.

One more word upon the puffin. He is strongly
ritualistic, if not actually a papist. I find it, as is so
often the case, difficult to be sure which. See the
whole series of pretty little genuflexions that he
makes after coming down upon a rock, and then
consider his vestments, his surplice—if that is the
proper thing—“ his rich dalmatic and maniple fine,”
his “ rochet and pall,” and so on—they are all there,
I feel certain, for not otherwise could he look so
extraordinary. His beak, too, if he only open it the
least little bit in the world, is a bishop’s mitre, and,
fon theming, he) wears it round hisiveye.” > “Pope,”
indeed, is one of his local names, but, on the whole,
I class him as a ritualist, for he ‘‘ out-herods Herod.”
Whether he secedes to Rome ever, or as near there
as the mouth of the Tiber, I don’t quite know ; but
if he does ’tis no matter, for he is sure to come back
again.

CHAPTER XXXIII
GULLS AND GIBBON

LL doubt as to the real nature of these horrid

feastings of the herring-gulls on floating car-
cases of kittiwakes is now at an end. I had been
watching the seals in one pool, when, turning to the
other, I saw, as I thought, two gulls fighting together
on one of the great rocks in the midst of it—a
smaller “stack” one might almost call it. Raising
the glasses, the truth was revealed. It was a herring-
gull murdering a young kittiwake, and very soon it
would have been “got done’’—as Carlyle says with
such a gusto—if I had not, in rising to follow it
more closely, alarmed the murderer, who at once flew
away. The poor little kittiwake got up—for it had
been thrown on its back—and stood without moving
on the rock, presenting a sick and sorry appearance,
though there was as yet no blood about it, and it did
not appear to have been seriously hurt. Its only
chance now was to have flown away, but it stayed and
stayed, seeming to doze after a while—the certain
victim of the returning gull, as soon as the latter
should have watched me off.

Turning my eyes from this disquieting spectacle—
one brick in God’s architecture—I looked over the
water, and there, in this quiet little bay, which seems
such a haven of rest and peace—i/ mio retiro, one

314

IN THE SHETLANDS Git &

would think, to every creature in it—I saw another
kittiwake being savagely murdered by another
herring-eull. This was a repulsive sight, and
through the glasses I could watch it closely, not a
detail escaping. The gull, with the hook of its bill
fixed in the kittiwake’s throat, pressed it down on the
water, shook it with violence, paused, got a better
purchase, shook it again, then, opening and gobbling
up with the mandibles, seemed to be trying to crush
the head, or compress the throat, between them. By
this the young bird’s struggles, which had been of an
innocent and quite ineffectual kind, had almost
ceased, but its legs still kicked in the air as it lay on
its back in the water—just as the other had lain on
the rock. The gull now, having managed the pre-
liminaries, ceased to be so rough and violent, but,
backing a little out from the body, so as to get the
proper swing, began, in a cold, deliberate manner, to
pickaxe down into the exposed breast, each blow
ending in a bite and tear. A crimson spot, becoming
gradually larger and larger till it represented almost
the whole upper surface, as the body cavity was laid
open, responded to this treatment ; and now the gull,
seizing upon entrail and organ, helped each backward
pull with a flap or two of the wings, feasting redly
and royally.

So it goes on, and, in time, both the part-players in
this little sample fragment of an infinitely great
whole are drifted by the waves to that same towering
‘stack ” which has lately been the scene of the puffin

316 THE BIRD WATCHER
tragedy. On it the gull lands, and, having dragged

the carcase some way up, flings his head into the air,
and exults with a wild, vociferous cry, in which his
mate, who has now joined him, takes part. Then
there is more feasting ; but in spite of the community
of feeling which this duet implies, the second gull 1s
not allowed to partake of the good cheer, but must
wait till the provider of it has finished. Should she
approach too near, such intrusion is vigorously re-
pelled. Well, thank God for the touch of poetry,
whenever it appears! There is something pic-
turesquely wild, as well as savage, in the latter part
of this sea-scene—the gull’s ze deum, flung out to sea
and sky; but anything more horrid, more ignobly,
sordidly vile than what has preceded it, it would be
hard to imagine. A kittiwake in its first full plum-
age, which differs much from the parents’, is a very
pretty bird, dove-like and innocent-looking. To see
it savagely shaken and flung about, a huge hooked
implement fastened in its slender throat, and that soft
little head towzled, bitten on, mumbled, the wings all
the while flapping in helpless and quite futile efforts
to escape, is sickening. It is not the worst scene in
nature certainly—serious deliberation amongst en-
lightened statesmen can produce things a good deal
more horrible—but it is bad enough, bad enough.
It looks like the negation of God, but a much better
case can be made out for its being the affirmation, so
here is the consolatory reflection for which optimists
are never at, a loss... “ Dhere’s | comfortiaveh amas
Macbeth says.

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IN THE SHETLANDS 217

I suppose it sounds like a truism to say that the
actual witnessing of nature’s ruthlessness—of her
“red tooth and claw’-—has a very different effect
upon one than is produced by the mere reading of it,
however powerful the description may be. Judging
by my own sensations, however, the difference is not
merely of degree, but of kind, for such accounts,
with the reflections made upon them, have in them
a certain tone and tinting of the mind through
which they pass, so that we get, not nature, but man
softening her. ‘‘ Why softening ?” it may be asked.
I am here speaking only of civilised man—who
alone, perhaps, reflects about such matters—and it 1s
my firm conviction that civilised man, in unconscious
deference to his own peace of mind, does soften
everything of a disagreeable nature, or if he cannot
soften the thing itself—and it 7s difficult sometimes
-—yet, at least, his hopes and faith and longings fling
a balm upon it, which, rather than the sore, is what we
receive. So, too, in all general reference. Man, not
nature, is what we get. Thus, when Tennyson speaks
of ‘‘nature red in tooth and claw,” it is not only—or
so much—this stern and horrid truth, that the line
calls up. Tennyson himself, if we recognise it as
his, immediately comes into our mind, and with him
the idea of one who, though he can admit so much,
yet sees comfort and hope through it all, who be-
lieves, or at least trusts—

That somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill.

318 THE BIRD WATCHER

Other nobly optimistic lines slide into the memory,
sunlight passes over the desolate landscape, and the
discomforting words, almost as they are uttered, are
atoned for by the comforting personality of the poet
who penned them. Thus nature, passing through
the lips of man, is tempered and dulcified in the
passage.

But supposing that such lines as the ones quoted,
because their source is unknown to the hearer, can
have no such comfort annexed to them, or supposing
that the poet does not trust, but is a gloomy pessimist,
or, which is more to the point, that instead of lines,
with their music and generalisation, we have an actual
horrid description, merely, of an actual horrid thing,
all in the plainest prose, from some one whose per-
sonality we neither know, nor is worth the knowing—
I have supplied an example—-what softening influence
is there here? Is not this but one degree better, in
the sense I mean, than seeing the horror itself? I
believe that here, too, the difference is of kind, and
that a consolation is extracted which we cannot extract
when brought face to face with nature herself, because
the truth, then, is too overwhelming. The comfort,
in such cases, comes not through the mind of the in-
dividual who is telling us, but through the general
mind of which his is but a part, through the human
ocean, rather than the human drop in it. For their
own comfort, as I believe—in self-defence, to exclude
misery—the great mass of mankind are optimistic,
nor can any unit of the mass impart, or suggest, to

IN THE SHETLANDS 319

us, ideas which are in opposition to this view, with-
out suggesting, by association, the more popular and
disseminated one, which we instantly lay hold of for
our relief. If A can see no bright side to the thing
he has witnessed, and can extract no comforting re-
flections out of it, yet B, C, D, etc., who have not
witnessed it, can, and to the general alphabet, as
against some exceptional letters of it, we immedi-
ately turn, and, enrolling ourselves amongst “es
gros bataillons,” feel that we are “in tune with the
infinite,’ and of course that the infinite is in tune.
But when, alone and amidst gloomy and _ stern
scenery, we see a disagreeable little piece of this in-
finite, suggesting the whole, in actual manufacture
before us, it is wonderful how little of music we find,
either in it or ourselves. All seems “ jangled, out of
tune and harsh”; but for the “ sweet bells,’ where are
they ' and were they ever there? We hear them not,
even as a something behind, an undersong of hope.
No, for there are no faces about us now, no comfort-
able looks and smiles, no good dinner or snug little
circle round the fireside; no volumes of the poets
either, and not a line of them, not one “ smooth com-
fort false,” comes to assist us. Man and his dis-
tortions are gone, and we have only nature—hard,
stern, cold, uncompromising, truth-telling nature—
before us. We look one way, and there are the huge
cliffs and the iron rocks: another, and there is the
great, wide, desolate sea: upwards, and there is the
cold, grey sky—stern and cheerless as either. Nothing

320 THE BIRD WATCHER

else but the birds in their thousands; and there, on
the insensate waves or rocks, amidst spectators as in-
different as they, one of them is slowly, methodically,
almost fastidiously, hacking, hewing, and picking
another to death. You see the struggles, the flights
of escape, the horrid, remorseless re-catchings ; you
see it proceeding and proceeding, see the wound
erowing larger and larger, the blood running redder
and redder, and reason, with an impetuous inrush,
says to you, suddenly, and as though for the first time,
“This is nature—this is your God of Love—His
scheme, [is plan!”

And it zs for the first time if you have not seen the
same thing, or something like it, before, and even
then, if there has been anything of an interval. You
have got a fact at first hand, from nature herself,
instead of through the falsifying medium of humanity
-—truth strained through benevolent minds-—and the
difference is so great that it is, I maintain, one of
kind, and not merely of degree. You cannot, whilst
actually seeing these things, get that sort of comfort
that you can and do get when only hearing or reading
about them. Itis nature that is speaking to you, not
a man, whose voice, be it ever so harsh, is mild and
puny in comparison, and which, moreover, calls up,
by association, the extenuating voices of a host of
other men, that sea of human comfort on whose
waves you float off and escape. No, but you are,
and you feel, alone. You forget, almost, for the time,
your own personality, and no thoughts of other per-

IN THE SHETLANDS Bil

sonalities come to relieve you. Afterwards, perhaps,
as you walk away, they may ; but for some time they
have a strangely hollow ring about them. One quota-
tion indeed, not of comfort, but as descriptive of the
kind of impression made upon me by such sights as
these, has often since come into my mind. It is not,
however, from the poets, but out of the pages of
a great historian—of Gibbon—that I get it, and it is
this: “ The son of Arcadius, who was accustomed only
to the voice of flattery, heard with astonishment the
severe language of truth ; he blushed and trembled.”
This, I think, describes more nearly the sort of effect
which getting away from man and his optimistic
chirruppings, and seeing gulls kill kittiwakes, by my-
self, has had upon me. I have heard, all at once, the
severe language of truth, and I have blushed and
trembled—trembled at what 1 saw—blushed for what
I had tried to believe. Afterwards, as I reflect upon
it, there come to me with sterner meaning, even, than
they had before, those words of Shakespeare—pointed
by your friends, through life—

From Rumour’s tongues
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

Well, there are pleasanter sights than the one that
has called forth this rigmarole, and I have just seen
a seal playing with the long brown seaweed growing
at the bottom of the sea, in a very delicious manner.
He seized it in his mouth, and, rolling over and over,

wrapped himself all round with it. Having thus put
Y

322 THE BIRD WATCHER

himself into mock fetters, his delight was to break
out of them, which he did with consummate ease, and
the grace of a merman. He did not keep hold of
the seaweed all the while, but grasped it now and
again, often opening his mouth and making pretence
to bite. He acted like a very playful dog, but had
a distinct idea of thus entangling himself with the
seaweed. No one could have mistaken this. The
design was perfectly evident. Two other seals, on
a rock, played together most humorously, or rather
one kept playing with the other, teasing him, but in
a kindly way, by which it differed from most teasing.
He would scratch him softly on the chest with one of
his fore-flippers, and when this was parried, with
a protest in look and action, he got farther down and
scratched, or, as I think one may say, tickled him on
the belly, beyond the reach of his guard. This
caused the poor animal to flounce about in a very
absurd way, and, at last, to half rise, and put on that
funny, expostulatory look, half appealing, half resent-
ing, and wholly humorous, which I have noted before.
' Most playful and humorously playful animals these are.

Could we see something of the inner life—the
domestics—of many animals, the record of it might
be very interesting. This is what is really wanted.
But who has done so? Who has cared to do so?
Instead, we have a few bald, jejune facts—habitat,
diet, time of bringing forth young, period of gesta-
tion (on which latter point a good deal of prurient
curiosity is manifested), etc. But the heart of a wild

IN THE SHETLANDS B23

animal is seldom explored, for it needs a heart to
explore it. She bears and tigresses have been robbed
of their cubs, but who has waited by their cubs to see
them return and fondle them? To do so might be
both dangerous and difficult ; but what danger is not
undergone, what difficulty is not overcome, when
merely to kill is the object? The zoologist of the
future should be a different kind of man altogether :
the present one is not worthy of the name. He
should go out with glasses and notebook, prepared
to see and to think. He should stalk the gorilla,
follow up the track of the elephant, steal on the bear,
get to windward of the moose or antelope, and lie in
wait for the tiger returning to his k7//,; but it should
be to biographise these animals, not to shoot them.
The real naturalist should be a Boswell, and every
creature should be, for him,a Dr. Johnson. He should
think of nothing but his hero’s doings; he should
love a beast and hate a gun. That is the naturalist
that I believe in, or that 1 would believe in if ever he
appeared on earth ; and I would rather found a school
of such than establish a triumphant religion, or make
the bloodiest war that ever delighted a people or rolled
a statesman into Westminster Abbey. Every man
has his ambition. To make a naturalist who shall use
neither a gun nor a cabinet, is mine.

Some men have strange ambitions, I have one:
To make a naturalist without a gun.

Pretty.) 1 faith, ©

324 THE BIRD WATCHER

The great seal is again asleep upon his rock (it
seems to belong to him and the common: one in
turn), and looking down upon him, now, from the
tops of the cliffs, through the glasses, there does
not appear to be any admixture of brown what-
ever in the shade of his fur. Wherever the light
falls upon it, it is an absolute silver, and, where in
shadow, tends to shade a little into the colouring of
a very light-skinned mole. But this last is merely
_an effect: the real colouring is, I believe, a uniform —
silver—very pretty indeed, where the light catches it.
The fur seems close and thick—very mole-like in tex-
ture—the general appearance, indeed, 1s very much
that of a gigantic mole, if only the head, the character
of which is different, be not well seen. In the water, —
however, when more or less immersed, even the head
partakes of this resemblance, or lends itself to it, and
the whole animal becomes “ perfect mo/e” (“ mine eye
hath well examined his parts, and finds him perfect
Richard”). In itself, however, the head is not mole-
like—as may well be believed—but, when held in some
positions, looks remarkably like that of a polar-bear—
a resemblance much more @ /z Richard. He seems
extremely fat—Falstaff’s ‘‘ three fingers on the ribs,”
I should say, at the very least.

A common seal has now, once or twice, swum close
round him, and looks a mere pigmy by comparison.
This latter may not be a large seal—I do not think he
is—still, the juxtaposition of the two gives me a better
idea of Falstaff’s proportions than I had before. He

IN THE SHETLANDS 325

must be more than twice the weight, I think, of the
very largest phoca—phoca Antiquarius, as | would call
the latter: lovers of Scott will take me. It is the
great barrel of the body that is so immense. The
build and general appearance is much more that of
a walrus than of an ordinary seal. The fore-feet seem
more modified, are more fin-like in appearance, than
those of the latter, which are rounded—soft, round,
fat pads—muffin-shaped, more like little cushions
than fins; but here there is an approach to the true
fin, an elongation and narrowing, and the toes all
point inwards and tailwards.

As the water steals imperceptibly upon him,
Falstafi—as I shall now always call him—stretches
himself enjoyably, and makes some leviathan-like
movements of his hinder, or tail, parts, looking
somnolently up, from time to time, seeming to say,
““O ocean, let me rest.” How consummately happy
he looks ! lazily, sleepily happy—a god-like condition.
Heroics for those who enjoy them—they are generally
all in falsetto. The “cycle of Cathay” for me, and
the untroubled sea-sleep of this grand old Proteus
here! A good deal of his lower surface, and the
whole of the rock he lies on, is now quite hidden
by the sea, but still he sleeps or dozes on—immense,
immovable—as though he were life-anchored there.
At length, with a mighty yawn and stretch, he turns
full upon his vasty stomach, and immediately, by
virtue of the different appearance which his fur has
when wet or dry, becomes a much smaller seal that

326 THE BIRD WATCHER

has climbed up upon a buoy—the lower, wet part of
him looks like that; the upper, alone, is himself.
Then gradually he soaks all over, till he is, again,
huge and indivisible, a great, naked, blue, greasy,
oiled bladder,—yet firm still, as though he grew to
the rock. But the end is now near. Sparkling and
gleaming, the waves come tumbling in; they dance
about him like fairies, like little familiar elves ; they
slap him and pat him, lap up to—then over—his
back, sway him this way and that, speak to him, call
him by his familiar pet name, tell him it is time to
go, until, at last, with a great somnolent heave, he
floats, and they float him—it is done together—right
off the now sunken rock: his body sinks down, his
head, with the fur yet dry, remains, for a time, straight
up in the water, then follows—his nose, to the last,
still pointing, like the “stern finger” of “Chis duty”
—not so stern as with us, though—“ heavenwards.”
As he goes down, you see that his eyes are still shut—
he continues to sleep.

CHAPTER XXXIV
ALL ABOUT SEALS

Os coming to the cliffs, to-day, I saw, lying on the

rock in the little pool where I have watched
the sea-leopard, as I call it, and that other which I
have hitherto called the bottle-nosed seal, or Bottle-
nose-—because that seems to be a local name for it,
and its nose, I thought, bore it out—a mighty creature,
the same, I at once saw, as had lain there on the
seaweed, that first morning. It presented, as before,
an extraordinary appearance, seeming to be parti-
coloured, light above and dark below. The tide was
coming in, and, wishing to see it go off with the wash,
I descended rapidly—indeed, a little too rapidly. My
knee, which is sometimes, in a rheumatic sort of way,
painful to bend, has lately become very much so in
descending the cliffs. To ease it, therefore, I sat,
and began to slide down the steep, green incline, and,
in doing this, my foot missed, or slid over, the little
depression that I had destined for it, which produced
such an acceleration of speed that, with several great
bumps and a change of position from the perpendicular
to the horizontal, I had nearly still further abridged
the distance, and eased, perhaps, more than my knee.
However, I managed to stop myself some way before
a sheer edge, which, though not much in the way of
height, would, no doubt, have been as good as

327

328 THE BIRD WATCHER

Mercutio’s wound for me—“ ’tis enough, ’twill serve.”
Continuing with more caution, I got down, and was
on the promontory behind the “‘chevaux de frise”
I had lately erected, before the tide was yet much
over the rock. It would have floated off an ordinary
seal perhaps, but this vast creature lay there, swayed
to and fro by the waves, like a buoy, but still firmly
anchored—“ built,” as one might say, “‘upon the
rock.”

At once, upon getting down, I saw that this was
my bottle-nosed animal, and, also, that I had been
entirely mistaken about his skin. On the lower
side, where it was wet, this looked the same that it
had ever done, as naked as that of the hippopotamus ;
but the other side, which was quite dry, showed a
fur which seemed to be rather thick than otherwise,
and of a brownish colour, but so light that it looked
almost silvery. The head, whenever the creature
looked round—for his burly back was turned to
me—with the nose and muzzle, seemed much more
elongated than in the common seal; it much re-
sembled, in fact, that of the polar bear—quite remark-
ably so, | thought, when turned profile. Now,
however, I could see nothing very peculiar about
the nose, nothing to justify the allusion to it
contained in the local name—which, however, I have —
only heard once. The bottle-nosed seal—for there is
such a species—of course he is not, though, at first,
in my want of all learned equipment, I thought he
might be. What seal he ts, scientifically, 1 know not,

IN THE SHETLANDS 329

but he is certainly not the common one, for besides
the pronounced difference in the shape of the head
and face, colour and appearance of the fur, etc., he
is much larger, the great barrel of the body being,
perhaps, twice the size. The figure, too, though
less human, is more buoy-like, increasing more
rapidly, though very smoothly, from behind the
head and below the chin, and tapering more abruptly
towards the tail. The fur may have some markings
upon it, but, if so, they are so faint as to give it the
appearance of being of one uniform colour—a light,
browny silver. When wet it becomes bluish, and
how smooth it then lies may be judged by my having
mistaken it, up to the present, for the naked skin.
True, I know of no seal that has a naked skin ; but
when in the open, with my notebook, I like to forget
what I know, and make my own discoveries.

I watched this great seal for some ten minutes
or so, as he lay in indolent repose, throwing his
head, every now and again, over his great, swelling
shoulder, till at length the elevatory power of the
sea became too much, even for his proportions, and
after rolling lazily about for a little, half moved by,
half helping the waves to move him, he at length
heaved himself around, and with a vasty, whale-
resembling motion, plunged and disappeared beneath
the deeply submerged edge of the rock-mass on
which he had been lying.

In the adjoining little twin cove, or pool, the usual
complement of seals lay on the great slanting slab

330 THE BIRD WATCHER

with two or three upon the rocks around. Another
was in the water, and I was much interested in
watching the persistent but ineffectual efforts which
this one made to get out upon a certain large rock, on
which he had evidently set his fancy in a very un-
removable manner. To look at this rock, no one
would ever have thought of it as one on which a seal,
or anything else, could lie. Its top was a sharp ridge,
whilst its sides presented, every way, so steep a slope
as to be quite unscalable. But there was a little pro-
jecting point, or chin—as sharp as Alice’s Duchesse’s
chin—in which the central ridge ended, and behind
which the mass was cleft, for some way, longitudinally,
making a narrow ledge just large enough for one seal
to lie-on. This little spike of rock was a foot or so
above the water, even when the sea swelled up towards
it—it being not yet high tide—and as it projected out
like a bowsprit, there was nothing underneath it for
the seal’s hind feet to get a hold on, so that every-
thing had to be done by a first leap up from the sea.
This leap the seal made over and over again, shooting
up sometimes almost like a salmon—his hind feet
alone remaining in the water—and grasping the hard
little triangle between his fore-arms, or flippers, so as
to assist the impetus by hoisting himself upon it. But
he always had to fall back again, after clinging con-
vulsively, and pressing tightly with his chin against the
rough surface of the rock, which, just at this one little
point only, had shell-fish upon it. He tried to time
his efforts with the swell of the wave, but in this he

IN THE SHETLANDS 331

was not always successful ; that is to say, he did not
always hit the exact moment. Having tried and
failed several times, he would fall into a sort of rage or
pet. He bit at the rock, cuffed the water, as he fell
back into it, with one of his flippers, and then, as
though this were an insufficient outlet for his irritated
feelings, flung about with tremendous ério, revolving,
contorting, curving his body to a bent bow, and then
violently unbending it, diving and flashing up again,
almost together, making a foam of the water, lashing
it in all directions. Then, for a little, he would dis-
appear, but always he would return and renew his
efforts, always to be again frustrated in them. This
lasted for half an hour, or longer. Once, after the
first ten minutes or so, 1 thought he had given it up,
for he swam to the great central slab, and began to
make his way up towards the other seals. But when
he had gone but a little way, he turned, and, flapping
down again, swam back to that coveted rock, where it
all commenced over again. This extremely human
touch interested me greatly—as who would it not have
done? How strong the desire must have been, and
what an individual liking this seal must have taken for
that particular rock, to make him leave a comfortable
place amongst his companions, and go back to try,
again, where he had so often failed before! How
strong, too, must have been his memory of what he
liked so much !—for it does not seem likely that any
seal would so have tried to achieve a special practicable
spot on an otherwise impracticable rock, unless he had

332 THE BIRD WATCHER

lain there before. If so, I can only account for his
inability to get on to it on this occasion by supposing
that it was not a sufficiently high tide, though, at the
last, the waves, when they washed up to their highest
point, were quite on a level with the point of rock. It
certainly seems curious that he could not manage it,
even then; but such great longing and striving must,
I think, have been for a pleasure known and tasted.

I have ascribed this seal’s biting of the rock to irri-
tation, as those other actions which so well became
him, and which I have very inadequately described,
certainly were due to this. But another explanation
is possible here. I have several times seen seals, when
on the rocks, take the long brown seaweed, growing
upon them, into their mouths, in such a manner as to
make me think it might have been to pull themselves
along by, as one would use a rope fixed at one end.
However, I could never be sure whether it was for
this or any other practical purpose, or only sportively,
that it was laid hold of. But now, if seaweed is ever
really used by seals in this way—to pull themselves
along the rocks, that is to say, or to hoist themselves
up on to them, then a strong growth of it here would
have been most useful to this much-striving one, so
that it may have been with an idea of this sort, though
not amounting to more than a regret—an “Oh if
there were only!” sort of feeling—that he bit upon
the rock. If so, he showed another human touch, for
the nakedness of this particular rock, and especially of
this point of it that he had been so often nearly up

IN THE SHETLANDS 333

on, must have been well known to him. Perhaps,
however, he thought to get some purchase on it with
his teeth ; and there remains my first theory of petu-
lance. I ought to add that in all these little outbursts
of pique and disappointment which I have recorded,
something of a frolicsome nature also entered ; there
was nothing morose or gloomy in them. At the
worst, the creature was a disappointed seal only, and
“in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,
whirlwind of his passion” there was a touch of
humour, a something of make-believe, a dash of most
lovable playfulness.

Lovable and delightful creatures these seals are,
indeed, for which reason the great idea is to shoot
them, and they have been almost driven from our
seas. The hunting instinct is an extremely strong, and
a quite natural one, for it is lineally descended from
our savage ancestors, who hunted and were demi-
devils, of necessity. Therefore, perhaps, it may be
said to be a healthy instinct, and therefore it seems
right. Nevertheless, reason and humanity alike rebel
against it, and there is no valid answer that I can see
against their protest, except, indeed, that one I have
already mentioned, viz. that it is in strict accordance
with the scheme of the universe. . I confess I hardly
know how to get over this, except by admitting what
I call an appeal against God ; but putting this difficulty
aside, then once let a man think (I mean, of course, a
man who can think), and, if he be a sportsman, “ fare-
well the quiet mind, farewell content.” Though

334 THE BIRD WATCHER

**Othello’s occupation” be not yet “gone,” yet from
that moment he can no longer “go to ’t” with that
entire lightheartedness, that “ in unreproved pleasures
free” feeling, which hitherto he has done. A little
leaven of uneasiness will mingle with what was once
an unalloyed delight, it will grow and grow, until, at
last, with some men, first the pleasure in the thing,
and then the thing itself will cease. With others the
instinct will remain too strong, but, even with them,
something will have been done, since no thought, if
only we could trace it out, is ever thought in vain. It
occurred, no doubt, one day, to some Roman sitting in
the colosseum, that what he was witnessing was not
quite a right state of things. He continued all his
life to witness it ; but if the whole progress of that age
could be laid before us, that thought would have its
place.

I have said that both reason and humanity rebel
at the unnecessary killing of wild animals. For the
humanity, that is self-evident—to torture is not
humane: and for the reason, when one comes to think
of it a little, how absolutely silly it is! It is destruc-
tion, the child’s pleasure, the unmaking of what one
could not possibly make, smashing, breaking up,
dashing to pieces, vandalism applied to the living
works of nature, leading to their eternal perishing,
with a hideous void in their stead. Something was
alive, interesting, beautiful: you make it dead, un-
interesting, ugly-——at least, by comparison. And yet
the hunting instinct—the heritage from countless

IN THE SHETLANDS 335

generations in whom it was a virtue—1s so strong that
those—and there are many—in whom it is not de-
veloped, should not judge those in whom it 1s, too
harshly—indeed, not atall ; for how should one judge
what one cannot feel? One can only hope that that
dreadful way of being interested in animals which
leads to their killing, and, ultimately, to their extinc-
tion, will one day cease in man. Nor is the hope
vain. It will cease. I know it will, and should be
happy in the knowledge did I not also know that the
animals will have ceased first. As it is, my only
comfort is that I will have ceased before either.

It is beautiful to see seals thus active under natural
conditions. In spite of what they are and what one
might expect them to do, one has to be surprised.
Everything is increased beyond expectation ; they
make a greater splashing, a greater noise in the water,
produce more foam, give more elastic leaps, make
swifter progress, than your imagination had supposed
them capable of. ‘They are creatures of the waves,
you know, modified, adapted, made like unto fishes,
and strong, as all animals are. Therefore, though
you may have hitherto seen them only in their languid
moods—and till now, in fact, there has been nothing
very violent—yet you might have imagined, and you
have tried to imagine, what they cou/d be when moved,
RouseG, excited, perplexed! in) the\extreme.”. Yes,
you have tried—but ineffectually. Nature, you find,
as ever, emporter’s it sur vous. Sur mot, 1 should rather
say, perhaps, since there are certain lofty spirits to

336 THE BIRD WATCHER

whom everything—the grandest sights of nature—
come as disappointments, so much superior to them
have been their own before-imaginings of what they
were going to be. Well, 1 am not one of these.
With Miranda, I can say, “my desires are, then,
most humble.” ‘The sea, the Alps, the Himalayas, the
Vale of Cashmere, the Falls of the Zambesi, the
Zambesi itself, have all been good enough for me, as
now these seals are, even. It is a humiliating reflec-
tion, but it is better to admit inferiority than affect
the other thing—so I admit it freely.

Returning, now, to these seals, | have spoken of
their great activity in the water, and yet I find myself
wondering whether, on the principles of evolution, it
ought not to be greater still. This craves a short
disquisition. Give heed, then, ye puffins, ringing me
round like a vast and attentive audience. ‘‘ Lend me
your ears.” You shall know my thoughts on the
matter ; a lecture for nothing—for with you Iam not
shy—so “perpend.” Is it not a somewhat curious
thing, mark me, that, throughout nature, we find beings
that are but partially adapted to some particular mode
of existence, excelling others in it that, both by habit
and structure, one might think would be altogether
their superiors? ‘Thus the seal, otter, penguin, cor-
morant, etc., creatures which, in comparison with fish,
may be said to be but clumsily fitted for the water, are
yet able to make the latter their prey. The reason,
however—at least, I suppose so—lies in their greater
size, since even the fleetest fishes cannot be expected

IN THE SHETLANDS 337

to go eight or nine times their own length in the same
time that seals or penguins take to double theirs, only.
In the case of the otter, however, there is often no
such great discrepancy in size, and here we must
suppose the victory of the mammal to be due to its
superior intelligence, or its power—as, perhaps, a
result of it—of taking the fish by surprise.’ But
it is not only in such cases as the above, that this
curious law of the superiority of the apparently less
fit may be made out, or imagined. It obtains also
amongst animals differing but slightly from one
another, and whose habits are identical, or nearly so.
Look, for instance, at the seals themselves. The
common one of our northern coasts has much more
lost the typical mammalian form, and become much
more like a fish, to look at, than several species that are
moving in the same direction, amongst them the fur-
bearing seal that is skinned alive to keep ladies here
warm, whilst the Japanese in Manchuria wear sheep-
skins. In these, all four limbs are still used for their
original purpose of terrestrial locomotion, so that
instead of jerking themselves painfully forward on
their bellies, as the common seal and others have to
do, they go upright, and even fairly fast, though with
a peculiar swing and shufle. Inasmuch, therefore, as
they have become far less unfitted for the land, one
might imagine that they would be less fitted for the
water, and that the common seal, from having been

1 Tt is stated, however, in The Watcher of the Trails, that an otter can actually
outswim a large and powerful trout.

Z

338 THE BIRD WATCHER

more modified in relation to an aquatic life, would
here have considerably the advantage of them. But
the reverse is the case, at least if one can at all judge
from a comparison of the swimming powers of the
two kinds as exhibited in captivity. Never have I
seen anything more wonderful than the way in which
these ofariide tore through the water, when pieces of
fish were thrown to them, in that wretched concrete
basin which disgraces both our humanity and common
sense at that beast-Bastille of our Gardens. The
speed seemed really—lI do not say it did—to approach
to that of a galloping horse, and, in comparison -to
it, that of the seal, which could get nothing, and
had to be fed afterwards, might almost be called
slow. Yet whilst the latter swam with the motions
of a fish, and looked like one, the other had more
the appearance of a quadruped gone mad in the
water. The great fore-flippers were largely used—
indeed, they seemed to do the principal part of the
work—whilst the much smaller ones of the common
seal were pressed, as here, against the sides, and
progress was almost wholly due to the fish-like
motions of the posterior part of the body, and the
hind feet or paddles, making, together, the tail. This
was many years ago, when the common seals at the
Gardens used to occupy the larger, or, to speak more
properly, the less minute of the two concrete basins
provided for oceanic animals. It was not till after the
arrival of their more showy relatives that these poor
creatures—the homely dwellers about our own coasts

IN THE SHETLANDS 339

—were relegated to one that, though an ordinary
man might find it rather large for such a purpose,
would be of a convenient size enough for Chang, or
some other giant, to wash his hands in. In neither,
naturally, could a pinnipede do himself justice, and
perhaps these ones felt it more than the other kind.
Now, however, I have seen them far more active in
their native ocean, yet they fell short of those others,
in captivity, to a degree which makes me think they
would never be able to compete with them.

It may be thought that the larger size of the sea-
bear’s, or sea-lion’s flippers, and the greater use which
they make of the anterior pair, simply and easily
explains their greater speed in the water. But why,
then, should the true seals—the phocidz, which must
once have been in the same sort of transition stage
between ordinary walking and their own gait, that the
otartide are now—why should they have passed for-
ward into their present more fish-like condition, since
both the advantage of walking has been thereby lost,
and that of swift swimming seems to have been
lessened ? Of two creatures, each of whom has, from
once being a land-animal, become a water-animal,
why should the one whose structure has been least
modified in relation to the change, be more active in
the water than the other? The phocide and otariida,
it is true, though belonging to the same sub-order,
may be the descendants of species that differed con-
siderably from one another, and thus they may have
undergone a different course of modification. The

340 THE BIRD WATCHER

fore limb of the former, we may perhaps surmise,
was of so small a size that, even after it had become
fin-like, only those variations in the direction of
smallness were of benefit to it, whereas, for a contrary
reason, the reverse was the case with the other—
though I should think this far more likely if the true
seals, like the beaver and otter, had a large and well-
developed tail. As they have none, I rather suppose
that their fore-feet were, for some period, enlarged
and broadened out, and only ceased to be so owing
to the gradual tail-like development of the hind feet
and posterior part of the body. This, the evolved
tail, began then to play the chief part in natation, as
it does in fishes, and, for similar reasons, I believe that
the otariidz are advancing along the same lines, and
that their mode of progression in the water will, one
day, be more truly seal-like—that is to say, fish-like—
than it is at present.

But let the ancestry and process of modification,
as between the two families, have been as different
as we can, with any likelihood, suppose it to have
been, yet still it is not quite easy to understand why
one marine animal should, whilst retaining the power
of quadrupedal progression, possess also greater
aquatic powers than another one, which, travelling by
the same evolutionary road, has gone farther on it,
has lost the terrestrial gait, become less a quadruped,
and approached considerably nearer to the true aquatic,
or fish, type. Should not the fish form excel all other
forms in the water? and, if so, should not the quad-

IN THE SHETLANDS 341

ruped that is more like a fish excel the one that is
less so? But, instead of this, we see here the more
generalised form excelling the more specialised one,
not only in doing two things well, or fairly well,
‘instead of only one, but also in the better doing of
the one thing wherein the other ought, theoretically,
to surpass it, as though it were at once more general-
ised and more specialised. This seems une ¢étrange
affaire. No doubt it is to be explained without con-
troverting evolutionary doctrines. Indeed, I think
I might hammer out some explanation, if it were not
my cue, just now, to be very much astonished. The
true seal, or phoca—phoca vitulina, as it is called, phoca
Antiquarius as 1 would call it—ought, in my now
mood, to be quicker and more agile in the water than
the otaria—the sea-bear, or lion. But it is not; it is
beaten—at least, if I may trust my memory—by its
less specialised brother. This is what—just for the
present—I am determined, oh ye puffins, not to be
able to understand.

CHAPTER XXXV
THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE

(CINGs more in Eastcheap with Falstaff—and this
I think will be the last time. I thought that by
getting there before the first tide was down, I might see
him come rolling up to his old haunts, to ‘take his
ease in his inn,” nor in this, I think, shall I be dis-
appointed. His rock will soon be ready for him.
Already he has come to it, swum about it, lain upon it
—though it is still under the waves—and then, gliding
slowly and smoothly away, has dived almost perpen-
dicularly down, following its seaweed-clad sides, till
lost to sight. Now, this last time, he seems come
to it to stay. The way he expatiates upon it is
delightful to see. Such great yawns, such stretchings,
heavings, and throwings back of the head, with supple
curvings of the neck! such luxurious anticipations
of repose to come, and oh, such sleekness, such
glistening! How intensely he enjoys this rest of his,
his long intertidal sleep! He was not asleep when he
came (it would not have surprised me if he had been),
but now, as he lies at length, rolling, a little, with the
waves that ripple about him, the eyes begin to close,
and even when he throws back his head and opens
his jaws, as he does often, they are shut, I think, or
almost shut. Often he scratches his chin with one of
his flippers, or passes it, indolently, all over his face.
342

IN THE SHETLANDS 343

I was right, I think, about the fore-feet. They are
certainly more elongated and fin-like than in the
common seal, but, which is curious, neither they nor
his hind ones seem to me so large, in proportion
to his size, as they are in the latter species. The tail,
if not lengthened, looks broadened, and it is fringed
with hair round the edges. Though the shape is
oval, it reminds me of the last joint of a lobster’s tail.
Perhaps, therefore, it may be an aid to the feet in
swimming. In the fold of skin between the two
hind feet, there is something which I, at first, thought
was a mussel, but am now not so sure about. In
colour and sheen it answers perfectly, but now looks
more like something membranous, hanging down on
one side. There is something peculiar in two of the
toes of the left front flipper—which is the one I see.
Three out of the five claws are black, but the second
and third—counting from the marginal one which
lies towards the chest, are, if it is really the claws—
white or whitish, and visible only to about half the
length of the others, the rest of them being hidden
by hair or fur. These claws have a peculiar rough,
irregular appearance, different from the others, which
seem smooth and shapely. The whiskers, which are
white, are both long and thick. They are often shot
out, so as to project almost straight forwards, and
then brought back to their usual position, where they
droop parallel with the line of the head and throat.
The great blubbery lips from which they spring are
thick and swollen, and have a soft, cushiony appear-

344 THE BIRD WATCHER

ance. Here, no doubt, we have a very sensitive
apparatus, of great use to the animal. The eyebrows
seem represented either by three, or four, projecting
hairs, like those of the whiskers, but shorter. One,
however, is greatly longer than the other two—or
three.

I have now noted all I can about this creature,
which; 1 think) must {bea females i@anvitiebe the
unmarked spouse of the great sea-leopard which was
here once, but which I have never seen again? Both
were in the pool together, and often quite near to
one another, and, with the exception of their very
different skins, looked very much the same animal.
Though they did not converse, or frolic, with one
another, yet I thought their very indifference had
something conjugal about it—-but this may have been
imagination. But if they are really male and female
of the same species, it seems curious that there should
have been so much difference in the time that each
remained under water. Of this, alone, I can be sure,
that on one occasion, only, I saw at close quarters, and
for a long time, a seal twice as large as the common
one, and with a most magnificent skin, for which,
and no other, reason I have called it the sea-leopard,
not at all knowing its proper name.

The substance on the large seal’s tail, which puzzled
me, is, I think, connected with the parts adjoining,
and this makes me conclude it to be a female, and
that it may lately have had a young one, which,
however, I have never seen with it. I can make

IN THE SHETLANDS 34.5

out no very special development of the nose—longer
and larger than that of the common seal, but I mean
as a nose—so that if the name bottle-nosed is really
applied to the creature—and one Shetlander certainly
used it—it must be, I think, for the reason I have
conjectured, the very round apertures of the nostrils,
which look as if they would just hold a cork. I could
never have imagined that an animal having fur—and
pretty thick fur, I think—all over it, would look so
absolutely naked in the water as this seal does.
I noted down that it was, without the smallest
suspicion of a doubt having occurred to me, and
I remained in entire ignorance of the real fact
till I saw it with the fur partly dry. Once, indeed,
I noticed something—the least hint of a roughness
on the shoulders—as it bent its neck; but I never
really doubted, so naked did it everywhere appear.
There is really some interest in letting one’s errors
stand ; besides that it does not seem quite fair to
suppress them.

Seals have strong preferences, not only for particular
rocks, but for particular places upon them. Ai large
one of the common kind but just now came out on
a rock where five others were lying, and advanced
through them, in a straight line, displacing four of
them. One only of these seemed inclined to dispute
his passage, and here there was some scratching, with
a good deal of hoarse snarling, almost barking—an
ugly guttural note. The large seal seemed not to
wish to bring things “¢@ de facheuses extrémités.” He

346 THE BIRD WATCHER

would pause, with a deprecating look, but without
giving way one inch, and, very shortly, press forward
again, the other snarling and scratching as before, but
gradually retiring, till at last he gave “ passage free.”
The fifth seal lay at right the end of the rock, where
it narrowed very much, so that there was no retreat
for it, as the large one came up—for that was just the
place he wanted—except into the sea. And there,
after many snarls, and growls, and faint shows of
resistance, as, also, most melancholy looks, it had to
go, the intruder, all the while, continuing to use that
deprecating, almost apologetic, manner which he had
done throughout. It was disagreeable to him to be
at feud with any of his kind, but, still more so, not
to have the place he liked; that was the idea quite
transparently expressed. There was that in his
manner which seemed to say, ‘“‘ With the sole
exception of myself, madam, there is no one for
whose rights I have a more profound respect than
for yours”; for, this ousted seal being a small one,
I put her down as a lady. Perhaps, indeed, that 1s
why he was so forbearing.

Several seals are now playing a good deal in the
water, flouncing and bouncing about, making little
white cauldrons, in the midst of which their round,
black heads, bobbing up and down, look like pipkins,
or crabs a-roasting. Two are sporting together in
this way, which is a very pretty sight to see. They
spin and shoot about, slap each other with their fins
or tails, and, every now and again, one hears a curious

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IN THE SHETLANDS 347

burst of sound, like subaqueous thunder; whether
caused by the swirl, as they go down, or being a
growl, half-choked under the water, I do not know.
Seals seem to lead a most happy life. I have
mentioned one leaping out of the water, as it went
along, in pure enjoyment—for what else could it have
been? But how different is all this to the lonely
sleep of that great thing yonder !—Falstaff—Proteus
—Bottle-nose—but that last is a calumny on a very
respectable feature. There is no real contrast, how-
ever. The common kind often sleep their leesome
lane. With the play it may be different. I have not
seen the great seal sportive.

A phoca has just come up with something white
in its mouth, which it is eating—a fish, no doubt.
This, too, it does in a playful manner, flinging
open its jaws, and seeming to disport with it, in
thems Hull} of the “enjoyment, of life they are’;
and the way up, through evolution, is to leave
all this, and to acquire a multitude of cares, with
gluttony, diseases, vices, cant—with a pat on the
back from a poet, or so, now and again, making
us out to be gods, and telling us to go to war.
A queer scheme, ‘‘a miserable world,’ as Jacques
says—but not for seals. Except through us, that
is to say. We do skin them alive, which raises
another point. Not only is man—highly civilised
man—the most miserable being that exists, or has
ever existed, upon this planet, but it is through him,
for the most part, that the robe of misery has been

348 THE BIRD WATCHER

flung down upon every other being that shares it
with him. He plays, in fact, the part of a devil in
nature, but because his fellow-beings are below him-
self in intelligence, he is not ashamed of this. Were
he, however, to be treated in a similar way by some
species as superior, mentally, to himself, as he is to
animals, he might see the matter differently.

Does right exist at all, then, as apart from might?
That which does not rest upon some active principle
in the scheme of nature, does not, really, exist. We
only fancy it, and thereby are only the more shocked
at the continual negation of what we fancy. In
nature there is no law of right, only of might, but,
as man develops, he becomes, gradually, aware that the
cruel exercise of this might does not always lead to
the best results. Therefore, he exercises it more
mercifully, and, in doing so, thinks that he acts
according to the law of right, as against that of might,
whereas what he really does is to carry out the law
of might in a more judicious manner. The idea that
animals have rights, in regard to us, has, for me, no
meaning. How can they have what they cannot
conceive of having? If they have, so must vegetables.
Whenever they enforce something against us, it 1s
through might that they do it, and this might we
have, in a greater degree, over them. The whole
question is how, in the highest sense, it is best to
exercise it. For the idea of right, therefore, I would
substitute that of might, judiciously exercised, as the
highest ideal that 1s in accordance with the scheme

IN THE SHETLANDS 349

of nature. All improvement, I believe, in the history
of mankind—with the case against vivisection, now—
cane be reduced to that principle; the other is a
delusion. The only right that nature knows anything
about is the right which she has conferred on every
creature, to do whatever it 1s strong enough to do—
and that is might. But when might is well guided,
all is well.

There is a puffin, now, within a few feet of me, with
the largest fish I have yet seen one carrying ; as large
as a Cornish sardine, and that is as large as can
possibly pass for one. And yet it has several smaller
ones in its bill, besides. How is this done? For, to
catch the big fish, it must have opened the beak
a good deal. That one, however, is right at the base
of the bill, as though it had been caught first. This,
I think, supports my ideas as to the modus operandi.
I do not see how so large a fish could be caught,
without letting out any little ones that had gone
before it. But if it were caught first, the beak, which
can cut into the body, to the bird’s convenience, need
not be opened more widely, on the next occasion, than
it would be if it held only a small fish. Did the big
fish occupy any other position in the bill than that
which it does, it would be against my theory ; situated
as it is, it is for it. Pray heaven, then, I don’t see
another puffin with a big fish !—for it may be held
differently.

I have now seen, more i extenso, another young
kittiwake killed by a herring-gull. Herring-gulls are

350 THE BIRD WATCHER

much more numerous here than even the lesser black-
backed, which is the reason, I suppose, why they
seem to stand out in this character. I do not mean
to brand them specially, or, indeed, at all. (Why
cannot it be recognised that to blame any one, for
anything, is to blame the Deity?) It is gull nature,
and that is not the worst kind, after all. Though I
did not see the actual commencement of this affair,
I must have all but seen it, as a party of young kitti-
wakes that had been bathing near the ledges flew up
all at once, and this I have no doubt was when the
attack was made. Immediately afterwards, I saw the
gull mauling and throttling one of them, in the way
I have before described. I feel sure that if it had
swooped to the attack, like a hawk, I must have seen
it, and therefore I have no doubt it had been swim-
ming amongst the troop, at the time, for only yester-
day I had noticed two herring-gulls within a few feet
of some young kittiwakes on the water, without the
latter seeming to be in the least alarmed. Probably
these gulls—whose plumage, by the way, a good deal
resembles that of the adult kittiwake—swim quietly
amongst them, and, all at once, seize on one. This
poor little thing struggled, as well as it could, with its
destroyer, and, several times, got loose and began to
fly away; but the gull was after it, and caught it,
again, before it had risen above a foot from the water.
As before (or nearly) it seized it by the throat, near
the head, and then kept compressing the part between
its strong mandibles. It was some minutes—perhaps

IN THE SHETLANDS 351

five, perhaps longer—before the kittiwake was floating,
breast upwards, on the water, and being disem-
bowelled—a horrid sight. Yet this gull could not
have been very hungry, for he allowed another one—
no doubt his partner—to approach and eat with him.
A young gull was vigorously chased away, not by
him, but by this other bird, who never let it come
near. Neither was the favoured gull really hungry,
for, very soon, the body was abandoned by both the
birds, and then fell to two others, a young and an old
one. Here, too, the old bird would no doubt have
driven the young one away if its appetite had been at
all keen. Probably they had all been kittiwaking in
the earlier morning, and were now fairly sated. But
all animals that live by killing—taking life in a chasing
way—are sportsmen ; they enjoy the killing, that is to
say, for its own sake. I can see no difference, here,
between the animal sportsman and the human one.
Manifestly there is none, for no one, I suppose, with a
brain in his head, can be led astray by all that irrele-
vant insistence on unessential distinctions, with which
sportsmen seek to disguise the real nature of their
ignoble pleasure—tlaw, grace, close-time, and all the
rest of it—differentiating themselves, to their. own
satisfaction, not only from their fellow beasts of prey,
but from poachers, with whom they are essentially one,
but for whom a far better case can be made out than
for themselves.

What makes, or helps to make, these scenes so very
unpleasant, is the prosaic and unimposing manner

352 THE BIRD WATCHER

in which the gull goes to work. We have, here, no
swoop and rush of wings, from giddy heights, as in
the falcon tribe; there is no dilating of the plumage,
no eloquent expression of the fiercer emotions; no
fine embodiment of speed, power, rage, combined, is
presented to us, nor does the victim lie, in an instant,
prostrate and bleeding beneath the claws of its de-
stroyer. Such sights make fine pictures. They per-
sonify, in a grand and striking way, our ideas of the
inevitable and irresistible—of fate, clothed in terror.
There is something in them of the old Greek drama,
nay, of our veal conceptions—drawn from nature
and the Old Testament—of the Deity. But here
there is nothing of all this—no impetuosity, and not
enough strength or mastery to give a sense of power,
at least not of mighty power. Structurally the gull is
not specially fitted, nor, in general appearance, does he
look fitted, for the part he is acting, and this, as is
usual, gives something of a bungling appearance to
his handiwork. Above all, he lacks fire, and this
makes one doubly alive to the cruelty, which is not
so disagreeably felt in witnessing the fierce thunder-
bolts of a true bird or beast of prey. There it is
masked, so to speak, under “the power and the
glory,” but here we see only a sordid and cold-blooded
murder, unrelieved by any feature of special interest
even, much less by any apparently ennobling element.
As a spectacle, it compares very unfavourably with
that of snakes killing their prey, and equally, or even
more so, from the intellectual point of view. For

IN THE SHETLANDS 353

with snakes we have a special, and very marvellous,
adaptation to a certain end, which arouses admiration
in a high degree in one direction, even though it may
excite disgust in another. On the whole—to me, at
least, who am a naturalist, with the curiosity proper
to one strongly developed—there is far more of
wonder and instruction, than of horror, in the scene,
unless, indeed, the sufferings of the victim are pro-
longed, which is by no means always the case. Some
of the smaller constrictors, for instance, will dart
upon, and twist one or two of the first neck-coils
round a rat, or other small mammal, with such light-
ning-like speed and dexterity, and with such tremen-
dous strength, that death—as shown by the relaxation
of the muscles, and hanging down of the limbs—is
almost instantaneous, and the effect upon the mind
comparable to that which would be produced by the
stoop of an eagle, or the spring of a tiger. We are
impressed by the speed and power, and have to
admire the amazing ingenuity—-one may even say the
beauty——of the structural adaptation ; for, after all,
one should have an intellect, as well as a heart. This
would soon pass into more distressing sensations,
were the rat long a-killing; but in the cases to which
I refer it is very soon over. The bowstring in a
Turkish harem must be a lengthy process in com-
parison. Thus the balance of our emotions pro-
duces, or should produce, the exclamation, ‘‘ How
wonderful!” rather than the one, “ How horrible!”
but with the gull and kittiwake, only the latter is
DIK

354 THE BIRD WATCHER

possible. Do I, then, defend the feeding of snakes
with their ordinary living prey, in captivity? Yes, I
do, so long as the conditions of nature are properly
preserved. I would make that the test. If it is not
permissible to study the living habits of the living
animal, to stand as a spectator and see how nature
works, then there is no such thing as natural history,
and no place for a naturalist. What naturalist is
there who would not esteem himself favoured of
heaven, were he to see an anaconda seize and strangle
its prey, in the forests of South America, or a cobra
secure his, amidst the ruins of some jungle temple in
India? Now, when the same naturalist keeps either
these or any other snakes in captivity, what is the
object with which he does, and which alone can justify
his doing,so? There is—there can be—but one, which
is, Of course, to study its natural habits—for all others
are puerile and contemptible. Is he, then, to shrink,
like one who cannot read a tragedy, however great,
from that very nature which for years, perhaps, as a
part of his daily life, he has wooed and sought after ?
What, then, justifies him in doing that? Why should
he look on whilst a gull, slowly and painfully, does a
poor young kittiwake to death? Yet, had I shot that
gull, to save that kittiwake, I should have done, in my
opinion, an execrable act. I should not have stopped
the ways of nature, in this respect, nor could they be
stopped, except by a worse slaughter than the one
which we would prohibit. I should have officiously
saved the life of one kittiwake, and taken a gull’s in

IN THE SHETLANDS 355

exchange. But if we are justified in watching a
certain act of nature’s drama, in the field or the forest,
why should we not, also, watch it under conditions
which may, alone, make it possible for us to do so?
The thing is not the worse because it 1s thus trans-
ported to another spot on earth; and the same snake
that in captivity eats but once in a month or so, were
it at liberty, would have a much better appetite.
Therefore, when we keep snakes, and let them eat in
the way that is natural to them, and which, not to the
naturalist merely, but to every thinking man, should
be full of interest, we do not increase the sum of
misery which this earth contains, but, rather, take
away from it. What we see, under these conditions,
we do not create, any more than if we came upon it
by chance, during a walk. We are spectators merely;
and spectators of nature I hold that we have a right
to be. If not, the very breath of his life is stifled in
the naturalist’s nostrils. He is strangled. He ceases
to exist.

But there is a test and guiding path of reason and
morality, here as in other matters. Whether it is
right or wrong that a snake should feed in captivity,
as 1t does when at large, depends, in my opinion, on
the similarity, or otherwise, of the essential conditions
in each case. In nature the victim is at some point
taken unawares by the snake, and it is only after
that, if at all, that it suffers any pain of apprehension.}

1 But this is begging the question of the so-called power of fascination said to
be possessed by some snakes, and for which, I think, there is some evidence.

356 THE BIRD WATCHER

If, therefore, we put a rat, or a guinea-pig, into a cage
so small, or so bare, that its reptile occupant is con-
spicuously visible, then, if the sight is fraught with
any meaning, or disagreeable sensation, for it, we do
not treat the creature fairly. We are modifying
nature, to the great increase, possibly, of its suffer-
ings, for it may be some time before the snake acts,
and if it were not seen, or noticed, till it did, its action
might be so sudden as to leave little or no room for
previous disquietude. In some way or another, there-
fore, either by the spaciousness of the cage, or the
cover which it provides, or by giving it something to
eat, the prey should always be made happy and com-
fortable during the interim between its being put
inside, and the attack, or first offensive movements, of
the snake. It should never be allowed to sit shiver-
ing, as it were, in the expectation of some dreadful
thing—not, that is to say, before the snake obliges it
to do so. Another most important point is this.
Under nature, and in their own homes, snakes are in
possession of their full muscular and vital energies
during the time of year at which they are abroad, and
take their meals. If they are not so, also, in captivity,
then we do a grave wrong to an animal in exposing it
to a death which, for this reason, is both more painful
and more protracted. As to the poisonous snakes,
their poison, I suppose, retains its strength in cap-
tivity, and if so—but not otherwise—I can see
nothing more dreadful in the death, by this means, of
a rat, or guinea-pig, in a cage, than in that of a marmot

IN THE SHETLANDS 357

on the prairies, or of a cavy in the swamps of a
Brazilian forest. With the constrictors, however, it
is different. The smaller ones, indeed, seem to retain
their full vigour, or, if not that, something very like
it, for they are capable—as I have myself seen—of
killing a rat almost instantaneously. It is different
with the huge pythons, or anacondas, which lose their
force, together with their appetite, in confinement, so
that their languid and clumsy efforts—lasting for a
long period—to take the life of their victims, may be
compared to those of a drunken headsman with a
blunt axe. Manifestly, therefore, to give them such
a creature as a goat to mumble, and in such a sort of
fern-case as they occupy, is a revolting thing; but I
cannot see that a flagrant abuse like this condemns the
principle. Were a combined rockery and shrubbery,
as large as a good-sized garden, accorded the python,
say, and were it in some hot country, the sun of
which acted upon its system like Falstaft’s ‘‘ excellent
sherris sack ’—its own, for instance, at the Cape, or in
Durban—then I should recognise no wrong done in
introducing a goat or pig (preferably, however, a wild
animal) into its sanctum. ‘The conditions would, in
that case, be the same, or closely similar, to those which
govern under nature, nor can I see that it matters
much, in ethics, whether a snake eats its dinner inside,
or outside, a paling. If it is wrong to see it do so in
the one case, it is wrong in the other, and the conten-
tion that it is wrong in either sanctions the principle
of an officious interference in the ways of the animal

358 THE BIRD WATCHER

world, which, upon the whole, are better than our
ways.

There is a very fine line, as it seems to me, between
thinking it wrong that a snake in confinement should
eat in the way that nature has instructed it to, and
wishing to exterminate snakes and various other wild
animals, because of the way they have of dining. I
may well think so, for the line, to my knowledge, has
been overstepped, and here, in these remote islands,
there are alarming indications of a campaign to be
waged—with no other reason than this—against
various poor birds, who are under the same necessity
as was Caliban, of eating their dinners.’ Some, for
instance—and they advocate their views in the local
papers—wish the gulls to be shot down, on account of
the kittiwakes, whilst others would seek vengeance on
the skuas for the way in which they persecute the
gulls. It seems wonderful that such grotesque views
should be held by educated people, but they seem to
me to be the same in principle with those which
would deny to snakes, in captivity, the natural use of
their bodily structure. For myself, I only believe in
such a Zoological Gardens as I have tried to sketch,’
and hope I have foreshadowed. But if the rational
study of the habits and life history of the creatures
confined there be not the raison d’étre of its existence,
I, at any rate, can admit no other, and I would as
soon think of training spiders not to make webs, as of

1 Carizan : I must eat my dinner.— Tempest, Act i. Scene 2.
2 The Old Zoo and the New,

IN THE SHETLANDS 359

habituating snakes to the eating of dead meat. An
interesting, an instructive thing, truly, to see a creature,
formed, by a long process of evolution, to kill in the
most marvellous and admirable way, tamely eat some-
thing that has already been killed! What wretched
vapidity! Like performing dogs, or monkeys, dressed
in men’s clothes. Where, then, is the soul of the
naturalist ?

These views I would apply to every beast of prey
in the Gardens, each one of which, in my opinion,
has a gross wrong done it in not being allowed to
do that which both its soul and body expressly com-
mission it to do—as though a sentient musical instru-
ment, throbbing to play, should never, in all its faded
life, be given the opportunity of emitting a note.
The misery of such privation is far beyond that
which would attend the energy now so cruelly re-
strained. It is out of all proportion to it, in my
opinion. Not only snakes, then, but the lion and
tiger, too, should, by my will, kill their prey ; or, if
this were too costly a proceeding—though I see not
why it should be—then out with them to the wilds
they belong to! I would have those only stay, that
could stay, and be themselves. No neuters in my
Gardens !

If animals have really rights—as to which, and our
own, I have expressed my views—then snakes must
necessarily have their share of them. They have a
right, I maintain, upon that assumption, to eat their
victuals according to the laws of their being, and I, on

360 THE BIRD WATCHER

my part, shall always be pleased and interested to see
them do so. I am greatly interested in snakes, and in
reptiles generally. Their structure 1s wonderful, their
powers are extraordinary, their ways and their habits,
their whole life history, everything about them, is
fascinating. They are not stupid, as they are erro-
neously supposed to be, and those who have been
brought into intimate relations with them have found
them capable of great and enduring affection.’ For
the sort of crusade, therefore, that has been got up
against these maligned creatures, I altogether repudiate
it, and I dissociate myself entirely from the many
harsh, rude, unsympathetic and unappreciative things
that have been said about them. Things, of course,
are thus, or thus, according as we ourselves are, and
snakes must be uninteresting indeed to some people,
since-—infandum !—in a place devoted, or that should
be devoted, to the study of the living habits of the
living animal, it is proposed, with a shout of
“ Eureka!”, to substitute for the grace of motion
and lithe sinuosity of the living serpent, its motionless,
stuffed, dusty, dirty, faded, black, hard, cracky skin.
A stuffed snake !—that awful production, from which
all softness and smoothness is gone, out of which every
intimate character is driven, from the very beginning,
whilst the mere superficial resemblance fades slowly,
day by day, till we have, at last, something like a vast

1 See the uniquely interesting letter of Mr. Severn to the Times of July 25th,
1872, as quoted by Romanes in his eAnimal Intelligence (International Scientific
Series), pp. 260-2.

IN THE SHETLANDS 361

sausage, or interminable gouty black-pudding, set hard
in a bolster-like attitude, with a crack, or repulsive
sharp angle, at every one of the stiff, graceless bend-
ings, supposed to represent those marvellous flexures
of the real creature, which, when we see them in their
living beauty, set the mind in a glow of admiration,
and are a rest, as well as a feast, for the eye to dwell
upon. ‘This—this monstrosity—we are to have, and
to be thankful for having it, instead of the gracious
elidings and foldings, the sweet wave-like coilings and
uncoilings, the subtle entanglements, labyrinthine
complexities, that, going hand in hand with the greatest
simplicity of design, and with the perfect, deft power
of unravelment, make the living body of a snake both
a joy to the esthetic, and a wonder to the intellectual
mind : instead, too, of the radiance, lustre, sheen—the
glory, both of pattern and hue—which sometimes sits
upon its glistening scales, crowning them with a beauty
hardly, if at all, inferior to that which decks the
feathers of a bird, or waves on the wings of a butter-
fly. All this we are to fling away for worse than
“dusty nothing,” for a set of sorry deformities—
worthy only of some wretched taxidermist’s shop-
window—which every real naturalist ought to be
ashamed to look upon, but every one of which must cost
some poor serpent its life. The worst plaster cast,
substituted for the original marble of a Greek statue,
were artistic luxury compared to this; and those,
indeed, who have no taste for art can enjoy the one,
as much—or as little—as the other. It is easy to be

362 THE BIRD WATCHER

satisfied with stuffed snakes, when suakes are of no
interest to one; and that, I think, is the position
here. Those who would stand and look at the pave-
ment, as soon as they would ata python or rattlesnake,
say to those who have the life-loving instincts of the
naturalist, “Oh, get rid of your live snakes, and have
stuffed ones instead. They’re just as interesting—in
fact, more so, because you can set them up as you
like.” Exactly. I understand, quite, what is meant
—only to me a live snake is much more interesting
than a live man or woman, and a stuffed one almost
more repugnant than a stuffed man or woman would
be. That is the little difference—the little thing that
makes all the difference. One is either a naturalist,
or One is not.

No, these are not my plans of reform for the
Gardens, and though I entirely condemn certain abuses
in the feeding of snakes, for the disappearance of
which I am thankful, yet I cannot sympathise with
a movement which, though it has incidentally brought
this about, is founded upon a principle which I think
is a false one, and calculated to produce unhappy
results in regard to the animal kingdom at large.
Except where it cannot be helped, I do not believe in
altering or modifying the laws of nature, as enforced
upon animals, by one jot or one tittle. Nature,
nature, nature—that is the beginning and enc of my
ideas about a collection of living wild animals. It is
simpler even than Hamlet’s view—long since become
obsolete—as to the office and function of the stage—

IN THE SHETLANDS R68

“to hold as ’twere, the mirror up to nature”’—for
here, instead of the mirror, there should be nature
herself. I would keep no animal in respect to which
proper and adequate arrangements could not be made
for it to live its own life, and, where practicable, to die
its own death. And in regard to suffering inflicted
by one animal on another, I would ask only this one
question, and be governed by the answer: “Is such
suffering in accordance with the laws of nature, and
the conditions of things in the world at large, or is it
not! In proportion as the power of exercising its
natural functions and aptitudes is taken from it, I
pity an animal, and that is why I hate—with an in-
tellectual quite as much as with a humanitarian hatred
—the miserable cellular confinement inflicted upon
wild creatures in a Gardens like ours. But I would
never curtail the activities of one animal in order to
preserve the life or diminish the sufferings of another,
though I would rigidly guard against those suffer-
ings being unduly, ze. artificially, increased. In my
snake-house, by the way, the question as to the pro-
priety of presenting the inmates with domestic
animals, could hardly arise, since it would be co-ex-
tensive with a rabbit-warren, and my gardens indeed,
could I have my real wish, would be quite as large as
Rutlandshire (Yorkshire for choice).

In the principle of interference, as between one
animal and another, I have no belief. It does not
appear to me to be sound or healthy in itself, and its
effect must be to check the growth of knowledge. Not,

364. THE BIRD WATCHER

of course, that I would wish to curtail the liberty of
personal action in this respect, any more than I would
wish mine to be curtailed. He who, in his private
capacity, keeps a snake, and feeds it on fruit or meat,
has my hearty approval; but if a naturalist, seeking
instruction, were to keep it in this way, he would be
largely wasting his time. ‘That he should be obliged,
or considered morally bound, to do so, is intolerable.
I lift up my voice, and protest against such an idea. I
go very far—very far indeed, I think—in my humani-
tarian views in regard to animals, but as a naturalist
I must draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at
officious intermeddling, at any attempt to stop the
course of nature in the animal world ; in which term,
however, I do not include domestic animals.

CHAPTER XXXVI
COMPARING NOTES

Wee would have thought that this same gull—

the herring-gull—which kills and devours the
young kittiwakes and puffins, besides living, habitu-
ally, on fish, crustaceans, molluscs, and any garbage
it can find, is also a fruit-eater? It is, though, since
the black berries of the stunted heather, here, are
certainly its fruit, and these it eats, not as an occa-
sional variation of diet merely, but systematically
and with avidity. Indeed, these berries, now that
they are ripe, seem to me to be the bird’s favourite
food. I will now give the evidence on which this
statement is founded, and which I think will be
admitted to be conclusive. During the last week of
my stay here, I began to notice, more and more, as
I walked over the ness, droppings of some bird,
which were of a dark blue, or purple, colour—in fact,
a very rich and beautiful dye. These droppings were
full of the small seeds of some plant, and upon com-
paring these with the seeds of the heather-berries,
I found them to be the same. They were too large
and too numerous to be due to any birds except
either gulls or skuas, and as I constantly found them
over the domains of the Arctic skua, I thought at
first, ““Ye are their parents and original.” One
morning, however, whilst sitting on the rocks, watch-

365

366 THE BIRD WATCHER

ing my dear seals, there was a down-dropping on my
right trouser (workman's cords at 6s. 6¢.), making
a great splotch of as fine a colouring, almost, as I
have seen, and ineradicable, which makes me think
that a splendid dye might be produced from these
berries—in fact, it was produced. Looking up, at
once, I saw a young gull just passing over me, there
being no other bird about—with the exception of
puffins, which made the atmosphere. Therefore I
felt sure it was the gull, nor do I think that Sherlock
Holmes, with a similar clue and a sound knowledge
of puffins, would have concluded otherwise. Then,
too, side by side with these droppings, I had lately
been finding pellets such as birds habitually disgorge,
formed generally of a mass of the skins and seeds of
these same berries, but sometimes containing a
certain number of them intact, or but slightly
bruised. Some of these had seemed to me too large
for any bird smaller than a herring- or lesser black-
backed-gull, and latterly I had found them mixed
with the broken shells of mussels, and other shell-
fish such as gulls eat, but which skuas, I believe, do
not, or, at any rate, not as a rule.

Some of these pellets, by the way, made very
curious objects. I have taken a few as specimens,
but I regret that others, still more curious, formed of
broken pieces of crab-shell, coagulated together into
a globular form, which two years ago were very
plentiful on the island, I have not this year been
able to find. I would here suggest that a collection

IN THE SHETLANDS 367

of this kind would be both interesting and instruc-
tive. It would form a key to the diet of every bird
represented in it, but its crowning merit—one quite
beyond estimation—would be that it would not in-
crease the rarity or cause the extinction of a single
species. For these reasons—more particularly the
last one—I do not at all anticipate that such a collec-
tion will ever be made.

I had already concluded, therefore, that it was the
gulls who ate the heather-berries, before I began to
see them walking in flocks over the ness, and most
assiduously doing so. First this was of an evening
—always herring-gulls—then at all times of the day ;
but the evening continued to be the great time. Just
as the kittiwakes, two years ago, used to feed, ghost-
like, about my shepherd’s-hut, through the short,
light nights of June, so here, from my little sentry-
box, I began now to watch these larger ghosts, as I sat
at the door both eating and cooking my supper.
From the door to the stove was a stretch—and there
were many stretches—and after one of them the
shadows would be fallen, and the ghosts hid, or fled.
Then came other ghosts sometimes—all past scenes
are ghosts— Da hab’ich viel blasse Leichen,” etc. Oh,
it was sweet, then, in the little bunk, by the candle in
its block of ship-wood, with a rivet-hole for the
socket, in the fading glow of the peat-fire, to read
the poets I had brought with me—Shakespeare, or
Moliére, or Heine—in those surroundings. That was
the time to read—for it’s all over now—amongst

368 THE BIRD WATCHER

the “‘thens,” the shadows—a dream, and so is every-
thing.

This was my last discovery—for it was one for me.
Soon after I made it I left this wild northern promon-
tory, regretting, as I shall ever regret, that there is no
comfortable little cottage upon it where I might stay,
and be looked after—have my porridge made—for
several months at a time. To be able to walk out
from as much of civilisation as this would amount to
into absolute wildness and solitude, returning into it
again at the end of each day—that is the life I appre-
ciate. For society there would be the good old body
who cooked for me, and her husband—a fisherman,
doubtless, with his tales of the sea. With them I
could have a crack when I wished to, nor ever sigh
for anything higher, since the homely utterances and
out-of-the-heart-comings of simple country folks,
especially of “the old folks, time’s doting chroniclers,”
have for long been all I care for in the way of con-
versation. All other irks me, and my mind soon
grows confused in it, so that I seem to have no ideas
at all, and indeed, have none for the time, except a
panting to be gone. Therefore, for the world of men
and women here—those masks, those flesh-enshrouded
spirits, never to be properly dug up or pierced into,
give me but books, and for my own little circle of
daily life, it lives in Miss Austen’s novels, nor do I
ever want to enlarge it. How many readers are there
who can say this—that they have ever had one friend
or acquaintance with whose loss they could not better

ING THE, SHE ELANDS 369

have put up than with that of a favourite character in
a favourite book? Somebody dies, and you talk him
or her over, comfortably, with somebody else; but
fancy turning to Emma, say, and finding there was
no Mr. Woodhouse, or no Miss Bates !

Well, I was soon in a southward-going steamer, and
here I read a paper entitled ‘‘ Observations on the
Distinctions, History, and Hunting of Seals in the
Shetland Islands,” by the late Dr. Laurence Edmond-
stone, M.D., of Balta Sound, lent me by the present
representative of the family, and Laird of Unst, to
whom I am indebted for all I have been able to see,
either of seals or sea-birds, whilst in that island. Here
was something to compare with my own observations,
and my first endeavour was to find out the specific
identity of the two large seals that I had watched with
so much interest. To the best of my ability I have
described the exact appearance of each of them, as seen
by me, for hours at a time, at close quarters, and often
examined through the glasses, and I have speculated
on the likelihood of the two representing the male and
female of one and the same species. This conjecture is
supported by what Dr. Edmondstone says, since he
states that the sexes of the great seal (phoca barbata)
differ much from one another, nor does he think that,
besides the great seal and the common one (phoca
vitulina—as a Scotchman he would surely have ap-
proved my emendation here), any other species is to
be found around the Shetland coasts. Yet his descrip-

tion of the skin-markings of both the male and
2B |

370 THE BIRD WATCHER

female of the great seal does not altogether accord
with the appearance of the two I saw. It is as
follows :——“‘ Male. The general colour of the body is
dark leaden, with irregular and largish patches of
black; the belly paler; the head and paws darkest.”
“Irregular and largish ”—or rather downright large
-—‘‘ patches ” my sea-leopard, as I have loosely called it,
certainly had, but with regard to the rest, I should
have said that the colour which alternated with these
patches, and, indeed, made counter-patches itself, was a
lightish yellow upon the belly, and that the mottled
appearance became fainter in ascending the sides, and
ceased, or was hardly noticeable, upon the back. There
were, thus, two areas of coloration merging into one
another, the one very handsome, the other not particu-
larly so; and this was the most salient feature pre-
sented. As I saw it, indeed, the belly, turned up-
wards every time its owner went down, was a
magnificent sight, in the effect of which the water, I
think, must have played an important part. There-
fore, I cannot quite understand any one who has seen
it describing the animal other than in terms of ad-
miration, whereas here it is not even termed handsome.

But now, “ put case” I had descended the cliff, that
day, rifle in hand, intending to get a shot. I should
have got one very shortly after the creature had first
risen—for it gave ample opportunity—and then,
whatever had been the upshot, it would have sunk
or gone down without its lazy roll, and consequently
without any exhibition of its chief glory. In all

IN THE SHETLANDS 371

probability I should not have seen it again, and I
should, therefore, have had nothing to record about
its appearance in the water, as seen under exceptionally
favourable conditions—for I was looking down upon
it from a moderate height. In the same way, had
my intention been to shoot the phocas, what should I
now know of their play, their fun, their humour,
their gambolling with spars, wrapping themselves
round with seaweed, polite insistence, petulant make-
believe, and all the rest of it? Instead, there would
have been a shot, et preterea nithi/—and this, indeed,
was just what it was, with me, years ago in the
Hebrides. That is what sport does for observation.

Continuing his description of the male of the
great seal, Dr. Edmondstone says, ‘The snout is
very elongated; the nose aquiline, very similar in —
profile to that of a ram; the muzzle very broad and
fleshy, and the upper lip and nose extending about
three inches beyond the lower jaw, so that in seizing
its prey the animal seems obliged, as I have often
seen, to make a slight turn, in the manner of a shark.”
This last is interesting in connection with the roll
round on to the back, which my sea-leopard—or
rather, great seal—always made, when going down.
It shows that it is a familiar motion with this species,
and therefore, perhaps, that it might sometimes be
indulged in whilst catching fish, even though it were
not quite necessary. The common seal also frequently
turns on its back in the water, so that I should think
the one posture was as familiar to it as the other.

B72 THE BIRD WATCHER

Probably, therefore, it can catch fish in both. In
regard to the female of the great seal, Dr. Edmond-
stone says, “The skin is of a paler colour, more or
less patched with darkish blue, and becomes J/ighter
with age. In two aged individuals, of different sexes,
the one appears a pale grey, and the other black.”
There were no patches whatever on the skin of my
bottle-nosed seal, as I first called it, but a uniform
“pale grey” describes it pretty well. I have called it
a uniform silver, and so, indeed, it looked ; but pale
grey and silver come pretty close to one another.
At first I thought there was a brownish hue, but
the more I looked, the more silvery it appeared to
become. |
According to Dr. Edmondstone, the male and
female of the great seal swim in a different way, for
he says, “He swims with his nose on a level with
the water and the back of his head elevated; the
female with the whole head elevated, like the vitu-
lina.” ‘This, as far as I can remember, was not my
experience. The large seal which I first saw, and
which I have now little doubt was the female of
the phoca barbaia, sometimes raised the head out of
the water, and she may have swum with it so, occa-
sionally and for a short time; but her characteristic
way of swimming—as distinct from floating upright in
the water—was with the whole head and nose just on
a level with the surface, and in one line as nearly as
possible. In this respect I did not remark any very
particular difference between the two. The male,

IN THE SHETLANDS 373

however, uniformly rolled over as he went down,
which was not the case with the female,—and his
periods of immersion were, for some reason, during
the time I saw him, only half, or less than half, as
long as hers, whilst he remained up, generally, for
a little longer.

In regard to the common seal, Dr. Edmondstone
has, like myself, come to the conclusion that it does
not post sentinels. He remarks, ‘It has been said”
(I felt sure it had) ‘‘ that when several seals are rest-
ing on a rock, some one of their number acts as
sentinel ; but this result of discipline or self-denial I
cannot say I have seen—sauve qui peut is, I think,
rather the watchword.” He goes on to say, however,
“The herring-gull is their most vigilant videtve at all
seasons, as he is of every other kind of our game.
The seal he loves especially to take under his wing,
and he is the most vexatious interruption to the
sportsman.” Long may the herring-gull continue to
protect the seal!—if he really does so. For myself, I
did not see any hint of it, though there was plenty of
opportunity ; and as he allowed Mr. Thomas Ed-
mondstone to shoot fifty in one year, I fear he cannot
be very efficacious. That he will, sometimes, come
flying down upon one, with a great clamour, as though
objecting to one’s presence, and will continue to do
this for a great many times in succession, is certainly
true. I have been treated in this way several times,
and in one instance the gull’s persistency, and
apparent dislike, were quite remarkable. Now, if

374 THE BIRD WATCHER

one were stalking an animal at the time, it would
be easy to construe such action into a wish to
protect if but “here no other ‘creature wasn
question besides myself. The gull’s method was
to fly to a considerable distance away, and then,
turning, to come sailing down upon me, uttering a
loud clangorous cry as he passed over my head. Had
I been creeping or rowing towards a seal, it is very
probable that in the course of these numerous flights,
to and fro, he would have approached him more or
less closely, and each time I might have assumed that
he had a special object—viz. solicitude for the seal’s
safety—in doing so; whereas the times that he did
not do so I might have counted as nothing—for-
getting them afterwards—or put down to general
excitement.

That either a gull or any other bird should take
any interest in the fate of a seal, is to me, I confess,
almost incredible. I have read of a curlew giving a
sleeping one a flap with its wing, so as to wake it up.
I doubt the motive, and I doubt it in every other
reported case of the kind. I am quite open to con-
viction, but it is almost always in general terms that
one hears of these things, whereas what one wants is
a number of detailed descriptions recounting every-
thing that took place. There is nothing strange in
birds becoming clamorous and excited at seeing a
man. No doubt, they are actuated by much the same
feelings as make the smaller ones mob a hawk, or an
owl; but from that to the deliberate warning of

IN THE SHETLANDS 375

another species is a long step, and I have never yet
read evidence to convince me it has been made.
Speaking further of the habits of the common
seal, Dr. Edmondstone says: ‘‘ Their time of ascend-
ing the rocks is when the tide begins to fall—the
water must be smooth and the wind off shore. The
favourite seasons are late in spring and early autumn.”
With so short an experience, perhaps, I should be
chary of forming an opinion at variance with that of
one who was “for more than twenty years engaged in
hunting these animals.” But my affirmative evidence
is good, as far as it goes, and what a few individuals
do for a few days—or even what one does once—is
in all probability done habitually by every member of
the species. There were two kinds of rocks on which
my seals lay, viz. those which were exposed only when
the tide was more or less out, and those which were
always exposed. They came to the first whilst they
were still under water, and established themselves
upon them as soon as it was possible to do so, and
remained there, as a rule, until they were floated off
by the returning tide. The second kind, as repre-
sented by one great slanting slab, which was the
favourite resort, they ascended and left at all times of
the day, without any regard whatever to the state of
the tide, the obvious reason being that the tide did
not here affect their power of doing so. The rock
which one seal made such persistent, though unsuc-
cessful, efforts to get up on to, could only by possi-
bility be scaled when the tide was at the full, and

376 THE BIRD WATCHER

that, and for a little before, whilst it was still coming
in, was precisely the time at which he attempted it.
At any time, moreover, and just as the spirit moved
them, these seals would leave their rocks, and, after
remaining for some time in the water, return to them
again. Though I did not take any particular notice
of the wind—it seemed always to be blowing every-
where—yet I am pretty sure it was not the same each
day, and the seals’ movements, even as it affected the
sea, seemed to bear no relation to it. On one par-
ticular day the sea was rough—nothing excessive for
these islands, but rough enough for it to be a fine
sight to see it dashing against the stacks and jutting
cliffs. I did not stay long on that day, and I was
hardly any time by the pool to which the greater
number of seals—all of the common kind—resorted.
I cannot now recall whether there were any lying on
the great slab of rock—probably there were, or I
should have been impressed by their absence—but,
even whilst I was there, one came up on to one of the
smaller rocks, and afterwards went off it again, all in
the swirl and foam. In ascending, this seal swam in
against the backward flow of the wave, and I was

struck by the strength and ease with which it stemmed >

such a rush and turmoil of water. No doubt there
must be seas in which seals dare not approach the
rocks, but that they do not require it to be calm—lI
mean, moderately calm—in order to ascend them, this
one case which came under my observation is sufficient
to assure me. I imagine, however, that what is not

IN THE SHETLANDS 7a

too rough for seals may be too rough for a boat, and
that therefore they are not often seen by sportsmen on
the rocks, except during fair weather.

Were the sea always rough seals would hardly ever
be interfered with, and so for their sakes I wish it
were. They are absolutely harmless creatures—
though some, perhaps, would grudge them their
dinner—most interesting and lovable, incapable of
defence Yor retaliation, and of little value when
slaughtered. The chase of babies, since it would
involve the excitement of breaking into houses, and
stealing cautiously upstairs, ought to be as interesting
to sportsmen, and no doubt it would be were public
Opinion in that respect to undergo a change. How-
ever, though the carcase is, as 1 have said—for I have
been told so here—of little value, I suppose it is of
some, so that a poor fisherman has, at least, an under-
standable motive in putting them to death, nor can he
be expected to feel an interest in anything that really
is of interest concerning them. But that an educated
man should ever wish to kill seals, being not moved
to it by gain, but as a pleasure merely, and from
a love of glory, seems to me now like a madness,
though as it is a madness which I have myself felt,’
I ought to be able to understand it. Yet I doubt if
I can now—so curiously has something gone out of
me and something else come into me.

One other remark of Dr. Edmondstone in relation
to the rock-seeking habits of seals is at variance with

1 Praised be the Lord, however, I have fired but one shot, and that missed.
2B2

378 THE BIRD WATCHER

what I observed in my two little bays. He says,
“The favourite rocks on which they rest are almost
always observed to have deep water round them, are
comparatively clear from seaweed, and under water
at full tide.” Now, the favourite rock on which my
seals rested rose to, perhaps, a dozen feet above high
tide before it became unscalable, and, to that height,
it was regularly ascended by some or other of its
occupants. In other respects it conformed to the
requirements stated, for the water round it was fairly
deep, and above the high-water line—where alone the
seals lay—it was entirely bare of seaweed. Other
rocks, however, which were habitually resorted to,
were by no means so, and many of these were right
in shore, where the water was anything but deep,
though sufficiently so for the seals to swim at once,
when they cast themselves off. The rock where the
great seal always lay was a mass of seaweed, and I
have mentioned having seen the common ones both
play with, and help pull themselves up by, the long
brown kind. I cannot help thinking, therefore, that
seals do not exercise much choice in any of these
respects, but are governed more by circumstances,
selecting rocks which, on the whole, they find con-
venient, and which may be now of one kind, and
now another. As, however, rocks which are never
submerged are, when accessible at all, always so, these
ought, one would think, to possess a great advantage,
supposing the seals to have no prejudices in this
respect. I do not, myself, believe that they have,

IN THE SHETLANDS 379

and the seal-rocks which I passed in the steamer were
such as to support this view.

Putting everything together, I believe that, both
in respect to the rocks on which they lie, and the
times at which they lie on them, the one and only
law by which seals are governed is the law of prac-
ticability. It is a very good law, and I wish I had
always been governed by it too—I mean beforehand.

TL ipa

au

INDEX

A

Ambition, a strange, 323

Animals, Memory of, as compared with
that of man, 107, 108

— Wild, not appreciated, 138, 139

—— Philistine nomenclature of, 152-4

— Sensuous pleasures of, underestimated,
pao)

— eee of, as compared with that
of savages, 256, 257

— Choice of, in regard to one another a
necessity, 281-3

— Cries of, false value often attached to,
306, 307

— Minds of some people in strange
state about, 307

— Wild, hearts of, seldom explored, 323

— Have no rights, 348

Appeal against God, an, 333

Arctic Skua, Persecution of terns by,
9-133; not always successful in
chase of, 10

-—— Suggested origin of piracy practised
byapblnn Lz

— Threatened attack of, rarely made,
10; possible reason of this, 10, 11

— Does not hawk at fish, 9

— Baffled by rock-pipit, 10, 160

— Will leave fish that drops on the sea,
Ly 12

— May be pirate or highwayman, 13 ;
possible process of differentiation
in this respect, 13

— Loves brigandage, 14: and plays at
it, 14

— Wild cry of, 14, 161, 162

— Grace, beauty, etc., of, 14

— Variety of coloration exhibited by,
15-25

— Description of fifteen differently
coloured forms of, 15-20

Arctic Skua, Is multimorphic rather
than dimorphic, 21

— Young resembles the great skua in
plumage, 22; and also in wanting
the lance-like feathers of the tail,
22, 23; these facts probably due to
sexual selection, 22—5

— Might knock one’s hat off under
certain circumstances, 94, 151

— Puffin robbed by, 133

— Its absurd prenomen, 152

— Bathing habits of, 160, 161

— Chases ravens, 191 ; its different cry
whilst so doing, 191

— Black guillemot robbed by, 302, 303

— Piracies of, may be turned to account
by herring-gull, 302, 303

B

Bacon in frying-pan, companionship
afforded by, 3

Bathing, Possible passing of, into an
antic in some aquatic birds, 199-201

Bats, Aerial performances of, 134.3 com-

381

pared with those of swifts, 134

Birds, Possible loss and reacquirement
of the power of flight by some, 7

— “Of a feather flock together,’’ 7

— Segregation of the sexes of, in, 7

— British, process of change and differ-
entiation of, in, 44; advantage of
collecting evidence in regard to
this, 44, 46

— Possible origin of some antics in,
7% 71

— Sometimes very rude, 173

— Want of uniformity in the actions
of, 17

Black Guillemot, Breeds in the Shet-
lands, 57

382 INDEX

Black Guillemot, Its habit of carrying
fish for long time in bill, 68

— Manner of swallowing fish of, 69

— Fighting of the, 69; may be passing

into a sport, 70, 713 will fight

with fish in the bill, 71, 72

— Wings only used by, 4a diving, 72

— Luminous appearance of, under
water, 72, 204

— Manner of feeding young of, 72, 73

— Cry of, 128

— Coloration of buccal cavity of, 128,
129; suggested explanation of,
129-31

— Eats seaweed, 203

— Wing-patches of, conspicuous under
water, 203

— Carries one fish at a time, 301, 302

—- Robbed by arctic skua, 302

Black-headed Gull, Relations of, with
peewit, 10

Books, The hundred best, 110

Brodby, Mrs., Missed as a landlady,
190, 191

— Pious hope in regard to, 191

C

Cheltenham Corporation, Ducks done
away with by the, at Pittville, 65-7

Christianity, Mock trials as between,
and paganism, by prejudiced Chris-
tian authors, 256

Collector, the, Does more harm than
the sportsman, 144, 145

— Goal of the, extermination, 145

— The biggest-record Thug, 145

— His love of Nature, 145

Common Gull, is like common sense, 13

— Makes best resistance to arctic skua,
13, 14

— A young Christian nationality, 14

Common Seals seen leaping out of the
water, 57, 538

— Luminous appearance of, under
water, 175, 204

— Manner of swimming under water
of, 175

— A splendid sight of, 213

— As seen under different circumstances,
213, 214,

— Unorthodox attitudes of, 214, 226,
227

— Odd actions of, 214, 215, 227

Common Seals, Animals of a finely-
touched spirit, 215

— Playing with a spar, 216

— Practical joking of, 217, 322

— A dormitory of, 225, 226

— Difference in size, etc., of, 229

— Sentinels not posted by, 229, 304,
305, 306

— Resemblance of, to a man, 230

— At the chosen rock, 231, 259

— Bed-times of, not governed by the
tide, 234

— Perpendicular attitude of, in wale,
2575 297, 298

— Length of submersions of, 257, 258

— Habit of opening mouth of, 2538,
259

— Sleep floating in the sea, 259, 260;
and under the water, 297, 298

— Makes the sea a rock, 260

— A great sleeper, 260, 298

— Sporting of, with seaweed, 321, 322

— Should be called phoca Antigquarius,

5

— Liking shown for special rocks by,
330-33, 345 3 or particular places
upon them, 345, 346

— Use made of seaweed by, 332

— Activity of, in water, 335, 3363 but
surpassed by that of the otariida,
337-41 3 difficulty of understand-
ing this and parallel cases, 336-41

— Sporting together of, in sea, 346, 347

— Eat fish in a playful manner, 347

— Author’s observations on, collated
with those of the late Dr. Edmond-
stone, 373-9

— Are governed by the law of practic-
ability, 379

Crouching, Habit of, in birds may have
preceded that of flying, 6, 7; or
have been resorted to owing to weak
flight, 7

— Habit of, in young skuas, terns, gulls,
peewits, etc.. 1973 and in stone-
curlew through life, as supposed, 6,

197

Cuckoo, Brilliancy of mouth-cavity in,
131, 1323 suggested explanation of
this through natural selection, 131,
132

— Actions of young in nest when dis-
turbed, 132

Curlew, A complaining shadow, 1

ieee toes
$a Oe

est

——

INDEX

D

Darwin, Quoted in reference to lizards
on the Galapagos Islands, 52, 53 ;
and in reference to sexual selection,
272-43 anticipated by Swift, 33

Dean Swift, Anticipation of Darwin
by, 33

Death, The dance of, encouraged by
science, 148

Ducks at the Pittville Gardens in Chel-
tenham, 64, 65

E

Eagles, A pair of, foiled by pigeons, 158,
159

Eider Duck, Female and young alone
seen in late July, 26

— Family parties of, 26

— Feed sometimes on seaweed, 26-8,
77,78

— Bobbing, etc., of, 28, 29

— Mother and chicks feeding on the

' rocks, 75-7

— Feed on mussels, 77, 78

— Process of difterentiation in feeding
habits of, 78, 80

— Luminous appearance of, under
water, 204

Emotions, Our noblest tainted in their
origin, 185, 186

Evil may be the path of advance, 207, 208

Expulsion, Law of, amongst birds, 7 ;
referred to by Gilbert White, 7

Extinction, The scientific charm of, 148

Eye, Accuracy of the ornithological,
when helped by a measuring-tape,

345 35
F

Falstaff in, Eastcheap, 343

Fulmar Petrel, Appearance, etc. of
young, 88

— Actions, etc., of, 88, 89

— Lethargy of, 39, 90

— Difference between young and old,
QOOx

— Domestic habits of, 91-3

— Young: how fed, 92, 93

— Different coloration of buccal cavity
in young and old, 933; suggested
explanation of this, 93

— Strange error made by author in
regard to, 114-16

383

Fulmar Petrel, Nuptial note of, 116,
117

— Unangelic propensities of, 117, 118

— Marvellous powers of flight of, 118-21

— A “delicate Ariel,” 118

— Nuptial antics of, 125, 126, 202

— fEsthetic coloration of buccal cavity
in, 126, 1273 suggested explanation
OH, WA) Gt

— Power of ejecting excrement to a
distance possessed by, 165, 166

— Statement made by author in regard
to, checked, 201

— Family parties of, 201

G

Great Black-backed Gull, Swoop of, 2

— Will attack arctic skua, 13

— Probably not victimized by arctic
skua, 13

Great Seal, Perpendicular attitude in
water of, 217, 234

— Length of submersions of, 235, 285

— Mistake of observation made by
author in regard to, 235, 236, 328

— Appearance of, etc., in or out of
water, 236, 324, 328, 329, 343-5

— More modified in relation to aquatic
life than common seal, 236

— Called “the bottle-nosed seal” locally,
234, 237

— Sideway roll of, in going down, 238

— Splendid appearance of, under water,
285, 286

— Beauty of skin of, 285, 3703 probably
due to sexual selection, 286

— Falstaffian proportions of, 324, 325

— Consummate happiness of, 325

— Different appearance of fur of, when
wet or dry, 325, 326

— Leaving his rock, 325, 326, 329

— In Eastcheap, 342

— His beloved sleep, 342

— Author’s observations on, collated
with those of the late Dr. Edmond-

stone, 364—73
Great Skua becomes less savage as the

young grow older, 93, 94, 151, 197
— Young, the, an absurd figure, 150,151
— Less interesting than the arctic skua,
1523 and wants the wild cry of the
latter, 152
— Is difficult to watch, 152, 161

384

Great Skua, Escape of a young, @ la
cuttlefish, 154

— Herrings decapitated by, 195 ; if not
by gulls in first instance, 196

— Plumage of, in chick, 196

— Cry of chick to parents, 197

— Crouching habit of chick, 197

Guillemots, Apparent habit of constantly
drinking sea-water, 62

— Will fight carrying fish in bill, 72

— Remain on breeding-ledges after de-
parture of chicks, 95-7, 211, 212;
or return there after having flown
down with them, 96, 97

— Actions of, as of feeding young, after
the young have gone, 97~9 3 pos-
sible explanation of this, 99, 103,
290, 291, 2953 and of similar
hallucinations in man, 101-3

— Young, how fed, 104, 140, 162, 163,
173, 209; colouring, etc., of, 104,
105, 141, 174; how do they reach
the sea ?, 105, 106, 139, 166, 174,
175, 232, 2333 not quite immov-
able, 108, 109, 142, 188, 287-9

— Nest-building, instinct in, possible
last trace of, 109

— Appearance of, on the ledges, 111,
112

— Nuptial note of, 113, 1145 strange
error made by author in regard to,
114, 115; how explained, 115-17

— Fodeling, etc,, of, 113, 114, 162-4,
172, 177, 178, 187, 211, 288-90

— “Harrah,” note of, 187, 188

— Flight of, a mystery, 133, 134

— Marital relations of, 139, 140

— Young, received under the parental
wing, 14.1, 142, 162-6, 172-4, 176,
212

— Receptive power of chick, 162, 163,
210

— White mark round eye of, 16435
represented in plain birds by de-
pression in feathers, 164; both
may be due to sexual selection,
164

— Funny attitude of young, 164, 165,
212

— A distinguished bird amongst, 165

— Picture of maternal love presented
by, 142

— Power of ejecting excrement to a
distance, of, 165

INDEX

Guillemots, Possible relation of plumage
to chick, in old bird, 166

— Depression under wings of, possibly
in relation to chick, 166

— Manner of diving of, 168

— A chick gone, 176, 177

— A family scene amongst, 177,178,209

— Chicks, the, petted, etc., by birds
not their parents, 179, 287, 291,
295, 2963 suggested explanation
of this, 183, 184, 290, 291, 295

— Possible process of social evolution
taking place amongst, on analogy
of insects, 179-83

— Plaintive cry of young, 189, 287;
supposed origin of the name, 189

— Eye of, 209, 210

— Buccal cavity of grown, lemon-
coloured, 210; but merely flesh-
coloured in chick, 210; suggested
explanation of this, 210, 211

— Strong constitution of young, 232,
2333 reflections aroused by, 232,
2:33

— Chick, dangerous journey of, 287, 288

— Bring in one fish at a time, 301

— Fish : how held by, 301

Gulls, Perpetual canopy formed by, 2

— Noise made by, 2 ; sounds softly, 2

— “Ow’”’ note of, 2; language evolved
out of, 2

— Discordant laugh of, 2

— Author troubled by hostility of, 4

— Odd sensation caused by, 4

— Seem to make all the world, 4

— Special sanctuary of, 4, 5

— Take place of men, 5

— House of Commons suggested by
cries of, 5 :

— Clinging to breeding-place of, 5, 6, 95

— One’s presence resented by, 4

— Young have habit of crouching, 6 ;
but adults do not crouch, 6

— Young, habit of associating together of,
7 3 consequent migration of, from
island, 7; suggested cause of above, 8

— In a mirage, 36

— Drink fresh water, 62; and may
also drink salt, 62

— Herrings possibly decapitated by, 196

— Not interested in the fate of seals,
3732 375

Gun, A, Dries up all poetry in a man’s
heart, 193

INDEX

Gunpowder, Invention of, deplored by
the author, 193

H

Heine, His views on sympathy in rela-
tion to civilization, 293, 294

Herring Gull may profit by piracies of
the arctic skua, 302, 303

— Young kittiwakes killed by, 303, 304,
314-16, 349-513 inferior, as a
spectacle, to that of snakes killing
their prey, 351-4

— Young puffin dropped by, on the
rocks, 308, 309

— Shakespearean disquisition, a, sug-
gested by, 308-12

— A fruit-eater, 365-8

— Beautiful dye, a, produced by, 365, 366

— Pellets disgorged by, interesting ob-
jects, 366, 3673; and would make
an instructive collection, 366, 367

— Not interested in the fate of seals,
3735 375

Humanitarian, the, Flies in the face of
the deity, 2503; a difficulty shirked
by, 250

Hunter, Mrs., Her pleasant establish-
ment at Balta Sound, 86

Hunting Instinct, the, Natural but un-
justifiable in civilized man, 333-5 ;
will cease when the animals have,

335
I

Iceland, The kind of paradise it may
become, 146

Innocence, a trumpery thing, 207

Intersexual Selection, Arguments for a
process of, 261-80

Island, the Author’s, Lonely yet populous,
I, 2, 3

— Remarkable caves in, 47-50

K

Kittiwakes, Young, assembling together
Ohby 75 (hy PON

— Appearance of, on the ledges, 112

— Cry of, 112

— Appearance, etc., of young, 122

— Young, how fed, 122, 123

— Bright colouring of mouth cavity in,
123; is less bright in the young,
1233 suggested meaning of this,
124-31

385

Kittiwakes, Mistake made by author in
regard to, 175

— Bathing of, resembles an antic, 199

— Dove-like appearance of young, 122,
201

L

Lesser Spotted Woodpecker carries
many insects at a time to young, 302
Life, Civilized, dark clouds that hang
over, 254-5
Lumbago, Disquisition provoked by,
205-8
M

Man, Comparative happiness of savage
and civilized, 252-6; impartial
judgment as to, not obtainable, 255,
256

— Plays part of devil in nature, 347,
348

— Civilized, the most miserable being
that exists or has ever existed, and
the great purveyor of misery to
other beings, 347, 348

Might judiciously exercised the highest
ideal in accordance with the scheme
of nature, 348, 349

Muscovy Ducks, Habit of drinking dew
of, 62, 63

—In the Pittville Gardens, strange
appearance of, 63, 64

Museums, Competitive roar for slaughter
of, 148

N

Natural History, Full of unverified
statements, 308

— Museum at Kensington, The, Its
family slaughter groups, 145-7 ;
the kind of people who enjoy them,
145-7

Naturalist, The real, not a man for this
world, 194

— Should be a Boswell, 323

Nature, The godlessness of, 137

— Ruthlessness of, the effect of wit-
nessing, 317-21

O

Optimist, the, His faculty of finding
comfort in uncomfortable things,

175
Ostrich, A ratite bird, 198 ; the scienti-
fic exigencies of such a position, 198

386

Oyster Catcher. See Sea-pie

)®

Palace of Truth, Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s,
As played and conceived of at
Cheltenham, 243 (footnote)

Peewits, Habit of crouching in young, 6 ;
which is not shared by adult, 6

— Relations of, with black-headed gull,
10

Peregrine Falcon, An exaggerated esti-
mate of, 156

— Foiled by a partridge, 156; and by
pigeons, 156, 157; and by a rook,
158

Pheasants, Refusal of a cock to rise, 44

— Unsportsmanlike conduct of, in Nor-
folk, 44.

Pigeons, in a mirage, 36

— How seen to advantage, 157

— Coo of, terror of, 158

— Success of, against peregrine falcon,
157, 1583 and eagles, 158, 159

Poet, the modern Christian, His devices
for speaking the truth, 228, 229

Porpoise, A large kind of, 83, 34

Professors, The blood-prayer of, 148

Puffins, Pursued by arctic skua, 133

— Rapid flight of, 133

— Picked remains of, frequent, 136, 24.2

— Enemies of, 136, 137

— Great difference between young and
old, 150

— Note of, 154, 155

— Impassive spectators, 169

— Lover-like actions of, 240

— Playfulness of, 240

— Sympathy shown by, 240, 241

— Mischances that may befall, 242

— Tendency of, to fight in mélées, 242

— Marvellous beak of, 243 3 resembling
a false nose used in amateur per-
formance of The Palace of Truth
at Cheltenham, 243 (footnote)

— Legs of, how coloured, 243, 244

— New sensation given by, 244

— Enormous numbers of, 244, 245

— Are somewhat silent, 245

— Nuptial display of, 246

— Male, a large-hearted bird, 246

— Buccal cavity of, a bright yellow, 246,
2473 is probably a sexual adorn-
ment, 247, 248

INDEX

Puffins, Eye of, almost as marked a
feature as the beak, 299

— Young, dropped by herring-gull on to
rocks, 308, 309

— Many fish brought in at a time by,
300; theory as to how this is done,
SOOT 3 OF 8 4.9.

— Is strongly ritualistic, 313

— A lecture delivered to, 336-41

R

Railways, Absence of, add a charm to
Sterne and Miss Austen, 193, 194
— The destroyers of man and nature,

193

Raven, Mobbed by arctic skuas, 191, 205

— None, this time, on the island, 191

— Battue of, in progress throughout
the Shetlands, 191

— Very wary, 194

— Odd action of, in air, 194

— Flight of, not majestic, 205

Razorbill, Apparent habit of constantly
drinking sea-water, of, 62

— Bright colouring of buccal cavity,
of, 127 5 suggested explanation of,
129-31

— Nuptial note and actions of, 127

Red-throated Diver, A ripple in shape
of bird, 59

— Resembles both a grebe and a guille-
mot, 59

— Neck of, very beautiful, 59, 60

— Dives like a grebe, 60, 61

— Apparent habit of continually drink-
ing, of, 61

Right does not exist apart from might,
348, 349

Rock Pipit, Arctic skua baffled by a, 10,
160

S

Science, Hypocritical cloak of 147
— Continual slaughter “for the sake of,”

147

Scott, Sir Walter, Description of hawk
chasing heron in The Betrothed, by,
Q, 10

Sea Birds, Their apparent habit of con- -
stantly drinking sea-water, 62 ;
possible explanation of this, 62

— Power of ejecting excrement to a
distance, possessed by, 165, 166

INDEX

Sea-pie, Quavering note of, 1

— Doctrine of metempsychosis in rela-
tion to, 37

— Bill of, how explained, 37

— A sleepy bird, 38

—— Feeding habits of, 218-22

— May become a swimmer, 220

— Has some notes like the stone-
curlew’s, 222, 223

— Gatherings of, on beach, 222, 223

— Love-pipings of, 223, 224

— Aerial nuptial antic of, 224

Sexual Selection, Nature and origin of
prejudice in regard to, 280-3

Shags, Use feet, alone, in diving, 50

— Disturbed in caverns, 50

— Unwillingness of young, to re-enter
water, 50, 513; suggested explana-
tion of this, 51-4 ; possible analogy
in conduct of lizards of the Gala-
pagos Islands, 52-4

— Conduct of a female alarmed for her
young, 54

— Brilliant colouring of buccal cavity in,
55, 130, 1313 but less brilliant in
the young bird, 563; above facts
explained by sexual selection, 55,
56, 129-31

— Apparent habit of continually drink-
ing, of, 61

— Flying out of caves in the morning,
82-6

— Bellowing of, 84, 85

— Nuptial actions of, 129-31

— Young fed by parents after leaving
nest, 148, 149

— Looking like heraldic eagle, 169, 170

— Young, how fed, 173

— Manner of diving, of, 173

Shark, Luminous appearance of, under
water, 205

Sheep, A, and lamb, picturesque morning
call from, 138

— A little harm done by, 138

Sheepskins in Manchuria versus sealskins
in England, 337

Shetlands, Sunrise in the, 81, 82

— Summer in the, 167, 168

— Night out in the, possibility of, 167

_ —— The wind in the, less interesting than
in England, 170, 171

— Persecution of ravens, etc., by land-
owners in the, 191-3

— Effect of climate in, on paraffin, 232

a7)

Shetlands, More lonely than “the great
lonely veldt,” 257

Sin, the way of, may be better than that
of virtue, 206, 207

Snakes, Killing of prey in captivity by,
defended by author, 354-64

Solitude, Sense of not diminished by
animal life, except through human
associations, 3 3 above opinion re-
versed, 297

— True, should imply no fleas, 257

Sport, What it does for observation, 370,
371

Sportsmen, An unobservant race, 142,
143

— Their one channel of observation,
143; and way of observing in this,
143

— Actuating motive of, to kill, 143

— Little of the naturalist in, 144

— Hasty inferences made by, 304, 305

— Interested opinions of, 304, 307

— Their intellectual competitions with
geese, etc., 305

— Compliments paid to themselves by,
897,

— Statements of, accepted as though
from heaven, 307

Stone Curlew, Habit of crouching of, 6

— Possible origin of some antics of, 71

Sunrise, In the Shetlands, 81, $2

Swifts, Flight of, compared with that of
bats, 134

Sympathy, The nature and origin of,
184, 185, 291, 292

—In relation to civilization, 292-5 ;
Heine’s views as to, 293, 294

T

Terns, Breeding-ground of, on the island,

1,9

— Canopy formed by, 1

— Sharp cry of, 1

— A “shrieking sisterhood,” 2

— One’s presence resented by, 4

— Crouching habit of young, 6

— Special relations of, with arctic skua,
9-13 ; suggested origin of these, 11

— Not often actually attacked by arctic
skua, I1 3; some more persevering
against than others, 11, 433 sug-
gested explanation of this, 11, 43

388

Terns, Possible ruse of, against arctic
skua, 11, 12

— Preferred as quarry by arctic skua, 13

—Excitement in colony of, on young
being interfered with, 31-34

— Anger of, compared with that of
insects, 31, 32

— Yahoo-like habit of, 32, 33

—— Fiercer in the Shetlands
southern England, 34.

— Ina mirage, 35, 36

— Mobbing hares, 32, 33

— Slight difference between common,
and arctic, 34, 35

— Assaults made on author in defence
of young, 39, 41, 42; beak only
used in such assaults, by, 39, 41,
42; differ, in this respect, from
skuas and gulls, 39-41

— Young encouraged to fly by, colony
of, 423 and may need such en-
couragement, 42, 43

— Lethargy of young, 42, 43

— The common made roseate terns, 85

than in

INDEX

Terns, Communal interest of, in young,
179

— Possible process of social evolution
in, on analogy of insects, 179-83

Theory, A soil in which facts grow, 79,
80

— Voltaire’s simile in regard to, 90

United Kingdom, the, Strange summer
contained in, 167

—— Not mistaken by author, for paradise,
167

W

Water Wagtail, Carries many insects to
young, at a time, 302

Whales, Small, off the Shetlands, 84

— Seen by author, leaping out of the
sea, 84, 85

Wind, the, Difference of, in England
and the Shetlands, 170, 171, 190

Wren, a, By the wild seashore, 238-40

Z
Zoologist.of the future, the, 323

PLYMOUTH

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
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