ry bird uttered that one cry, and no other,
a totally different effect was produced. The herring-gull and lesser
black-backed gull resemble each other in language as they do in general
appearance; both have very powerful and clear voices unlike the guttural
black-headed and common gull. But the herring-gull has a shriller, more
piercing voice, and resembles the black-backed species just as, in human
voices, a boy's clear treble resembles a baritone. Both birds have a
variety of notes; and both, when the nest is threatened with danger,
utter one powerful importunate cry, which is repeated incessantly until
the danger is over. And as the birds breed in communities, often very
populous, and all clamour together, the effect of so many powerful and
unisonant voices is very grand; but it differs in the two species,
owing to the quality of their voices being different; the storm of
sound produced by the black-backs is deep and solemn, while that of the
herring-gulls has a ringing sharpness almost metallic.

It is probable that in the case I am describing the effect of sharpness
and resonance was heightened by the position of the birds, perched
motionless, scattered about on the face of the perpendicular wall of
rock, all with their beaks turned in my direction, raining their cries
upon me. It was not a monotonous storm of cries, but rose and fell; for
after two or three minutes the excitement would abate somewhat and the
cries grow fewer and fewer; then the infection would spread again, bird
after bird joining the outcry; and after a while there would be another
lull, and so on, wave following wave of sound. I could have spent hours,
and the hours would have seemed like minutes, listening to that strange
chorus of ringing chiming cries, so novel was its effect, and unlike
that of any other tempest of sound produced by birds which I had ever
heard. When by way of a parting caress and benediction (given and
received) I dipped my hands in Branscombe's clear streamlet it was with
a feeling of tender regret that was almost a pain. For who does not make
a little inward moan, an Eve's Lamentation, an unworded, "Must I leave
thee, Paradise?" on quitting any such sweet restful spot, however brief
his stay in it may have been? But when I had climbed to the summit of
the great down on the east side of the valley and looked on the wide
land and wider sea flashed with the early sunlight I rejoiced full of
glory at my freedom. For invariably