as it whistles across this rocky ledge, which runs far out to sea. It is a favourite landing-place for birds coming in from the north or north-east, and wildfowl passing up or down the coast must either cross it or go out of their way to avoid it. As they usually adopt the former course, this natural breakwater makes the best of stations for observation and also, as many an old gunner knows, for lying ambushed amongst the boulders, his black-coated retriever at his feet, and his heavy muzzle-loader in readiness for the flight-ducks. There he will wait for hours, sometimes in bitter weather, when it is blowing hard, and when snowshowers close in the outlook but for a momentary clearance about every half hour. Under such circumstances the ducks are sure to be on the move. A wood-pigeon comes in from seaward, and a woodcock follows, just topping the waves,—curious that migration should be continued thus late, to the very close of the year. A little bunch of Knots in grey winter dress alights close at hand to seek shelter on the margin of a rock-pool. In a lull between the squalls, Snow Buntings twitter cheerfully from the grassy cliff-slope. Following them up, we find a large flock of Golden Plover, resting with peewits on a frozen stubble. In another field a party of Dunlin, driven from the shore by the tide, is running about with larks and starlings. In such wild and wintry weather we never fail to see the Glaucous Gull, a fine species
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