within a few yards of the house—"in the doorway," our host expressed it—we heard what sounded like an emphatic "it-y-corka," the emphasis on the third syllable, and other land remarks—"kitty-coo-roo," "kok-a-kok," sharply repeated, and "kok-a-go-go," all uttered with a vehemence which was perfectly astonishing. The birds flew swiftly, following one another; at times there was a moment's silence, then a babel of voices.
Pliny talked about the birds of Diomede, with teeth and fire-coloured eyes, which attacked strangers but fawned upon the Greeks; these are supposed to have been shearwaters. Even now the strings which fly "as if the furies were behind them" over the waters of the Levant are the "âmes damnées." Did not this title really originate in their weird nocturnal calls, not in their easy, graceful, diurnal flight? A lighthouse keeper once told us that the bird said plainly: "It is your fault"; as we listened we understood. Were they blaming us for the disturbance of their sleep earlier in the day, for liberties taken with their infants? Long after midnight the din continued, heard through the open window; as we passed into the realms of sleep the cry: "It is yor folt," mingled with our dreams.
