Part 8

During the first few hours of this month our lantern was the centre of a twittering throng of feathered migrants. Wheatears, rockpipits, starlings, wrens, and robins fluttered erratically through the rays or clamoured in their innocence against the glass, apparently desiring a closer acquaintance with the source of light. Puffs of feathers floated away on the easterly breeze as some unfortunate, less discreet than his fellows, crashed against the invisible barrier. The coming dawn, however, reveals to the survivors the absurdity of their position, and ere the light is extinguished they have resumed their journey shorewards. Frequent fogs occurred in the earlier part of the month, and during the prevalence of a long spell a long-eared owl was captured on the balcony and held prisoner for a week, during which time various samples of our commissariat were offered for his acceptance without avail. A luckless sparrow, the only one by the way I have seen here, was then captured and placed at his disposal. This proved more in his line of business, for on the morning after the rump and tail feathers alone were left. Next day the indigestible portions, feathers, etc., were cast up in the form of a compact ball. Later a thrush was similarly offered, but after a couple of days in each other’s company remained untouched. It was amusing to see the spirited attitude assumed by the thrush when in the presence of his natural foe. Screaming aggressively at the slightest movement of the owl, he would lunge furiously in his direction, his bill all the while snapping audibly. The fog having cleared somewhat, both were then set at liberty.

Another very rare visitor seen here this month was a sheldrake, which passed close overhead flying south. This is the first I have seen here, but in Orkney these birds are very numerous and are there known as the burrow duck, or sly-goose. Sly they certainly are, as evidenced by a pair which nested regularly within a couple of hundred yards of the lighthouse at which I was then stationed. A covered drain was the site annually chosen, the nest being placed several yards from the mouth, which opened out on a spacious grassy hollow. The bright brown and white plumage, with vermilion bill and feet, render these birds most conspicuous objects in an ordinary landscape; but squatting on a shingly beach, where their colours harmonise better with their surroundings, their presence is less easily detected. Frequently I have watched their movements with a telescope from the lantern, and though no one was stirring within seeing distance of them, the greatest caution was always exercised in approaching the nest. Lighting a hundred yards from the nest, a pretence of feeding diligently was made, though their heads could be seen frequently lifting in the direction from which intrusion was to be expected. Gradually circling nearer the nest, passing and repassing it with apparent indifference, till within a few feet of it they would then suddenly vanish. The exact moment of their entrance I was never able to note, as they appeared to assume an invisibility during the remaining few feet of their journey that was really astonishing, but which is less a matter of surprise when one has witnessed the squatting in concealment of a hen pheasant on sparse grassy ground. Burrow duck is a name applied to these birds from their habit of nesting in disused rabbit burrows. I have counted as many as forty young ones following a single pair, while others may have only three or four juveniles in their train. It is said they do not scruple to steal the young ones from each other. If alarmed while feeding among the decaying seaware on the beach, some of the parents will fly to meet the intruder and endeavour to divert his attention in another direction, while the others fly seawards, followed by their callow broods flapping their little wings, while their feet tip-tip the surface--a veritable walking on the waters.

Just as the rocks were being overflowed the other day, we had a visit of another bird which is but rarely seen here, namely, the oyster-catcher. The plumage beautiful black and white, the feet and bill a brilliant red; the latter, which is flattened vertically, suggestive of a stick of sealing wax. Though fairly well acquainted with this species, I never had the good fortune till now to see them in the _rôle_ of limpet pickers, by which name they are known in some localities. From the balcony, with the aid of the telescope, his movements were brought within a few feet of us. Wading an inch or so deep, where the limpets were probably opening to the influence of the incoming tide, he appeared to make a judicious selection; then, with a single sidelong blow of his chisel-like bill, he turned the no doubt astonished mollusc upside down. Seizing it in his bill, he carried it to a still dry portion of the Rock, and in a twinkling he had the limpet out of its shell, and journeying up his long bill to its doom. The tip of the upper mandible appeared to do the scooping out, while the lower merely acted as a resistance outside the shell, the operation being performed more quickly than even the adroit oyster-man turns out his wares on the half-shell. Though not web-footed nor in the habit of diving, I remember seeing one of these birds, which had been winged with a gun-shot, dive repeatedly in order to escape further injury.

On the afternoon of the 16th, two days earlier than last year, a loud chorus of discordant voices floating to our bedroom windows announced the presence of a large flock of terns--their first arrival here since wintering in the sunny south. Screaming and diving, they appear tireless in the pursuit of their prey, which, with the aid of the telescope, is seen to consist of inch-long “fry.” How trim and neat they appear as they cluster on the rocks as the tide recedes, pruning their feathers and chattering vociferously; the head enshrouded in a black, glossy skull-cap, the back and wings a bluish grey, the under parts of unsullied white; the long sharp-pointed scarlet bill tipped with black in harmony with the legs, and small webbed feet. This active little bird is also called the Sea Swallow, an _alias_ assumed from its long narrow wings and forked tail.

The sea has been literally alive with large poddlies this month. Morning and evening they can be seen “breaking” on the surface in pursuit of “fry,” splashing loudly in their efforts. Though somewhat averse to our lure, we generally manage to secure a breakfast. On quiet, still days, good sized cod are seen prowling over the rocks; and, though lines were set at low water, they were seen at high water to pass the temptation with indifference. Fishermen aver that all fish have times when the most tempting delicacy fails to attract their attention; and possibly this is the case with those which have been lately under our observation. Hermit crabs at present are seen to be carrying spawn; and one which was removed from its shell was seen to have the spawn so far advanced that, when placed in a shallow pool, they released their attachment with the parent, and began life as free swimmers. A small fish of the blenny species, when taken from the crevice in which the tide had left it, was quite dark coloured, but when placed in a pool was seen to adapt itself to the colouring of the bottom on which it rested, assuming a mottled grey scarcely distinguishable from the pool bottom.

Painters have been busy for the latter half of this month repainting the outside of the building. Favoured with suitable weather, a fortnight sufficed for the operation of donning the triennial coat, which will explain the apparent proximity with which it has been lately viewed from Arbroath.

_JUNE-JULY 1903._

A close inspection of the flowing tide as it swirls around our gratings reveals the presence of myriads of minute globular jellyfishes--the _cydippe pileus_--said to be the favourite food of the arctic whale, though one would scarcely expect these bulky cetaceans to thrive or even subsist on such watery diet. Ranging in size from a pin head to a walnut, what a gap each mouthful must make in their numbers. The poddlies themselves are not averse to this form of food, as they are occasionally seen to disgorge them when landed in our doorway. The common jellyfish progresses through the water with a pulsating movement of the entire disc, such movement being termed “pulmonigrade,” and somewhat resembles the action of an umbrella being partially opened and closed. The mode of progression in the case of the _cydippe_ is, however, different, and is termed “ciliograde,” as the propulsion is effected by means of eight vertical bands of cilia or minute plates overlapping each other. Each plate having an independent action of its own, the animal can propel itself in any desired direction, or, by resting them against its spherical body, sink to the bottom. In sunshine these animals in their evolutions emit the most beautiful combinations of colour one could imagine, but “you seize the flower, its bloom is shed”--scooped up in the hollow of the hand their beauty vanishes, and only a small spat of inert transparent jelly remains. Here at present in the Rock pools one may witness a peculiar phase in the evolution of the jellyfish. Along with many beautiful varieties of marine vegetation, miniature forests of fir trees garnish the bottom of each shallow pool. These lilliputian firs, with their branches no thicker than a hair, are but plants in semblance, for here is the opening chapter in the life history of the medusae. Under the lens each fragile shoot is seen to consist of multitudes of small discs piled upon each other like so many saucers, each of which will, in due course, detach itself from its neighbour and enter on its new existence as fully equipped as the exaggerated specimens frequently seen stranded on our beaches. Lurking amongst the vegetation in the pools are numerous tiny spider-crabs, roaming about in search of food. Only by their movements can they be located, as each bears about with it quite a luxuriant growth of vegetation, with which I understand all crustaceans would become invested did they not--ludicrous as it may seem--regularly attend to their toilet. The “spider,” however, unable to procure a living by force of arms like his bigger brother, has recourse to the subterfuge of posing as an innocent patch of marine vegetation, and by such concealment is enabled to capture food which would be otherwise unattainable. The females at present are seen to be carrying spawn. When changing their position in the pool it is somewhat surprising to see a portion of the plants, which one has been admiring, suddenly become endowed with the powers of locomotion, detach itself from the mass, and, ambling leisurely round the pool, come to rest on the fringe of some other patch with which it completely harmonises.

During the whole of June, at daybreak and again in the evening, the sea around us appeared literally alive with large-sized poddlies. Their continual flip-flop on the surface in pursuit of “fry” could be distinctly heard from the balcony. Though frequently within reach of our attempts from the doorway, they failed to appreciate our invitation to any extent, and only with much perseverance did we occasionally manage to breakfast at their expense. A few cod have been taken from the pools at low water. The deepest of these pools is about a couple of fathoms at low water, and has the reputation of being a sort of convalescent home, as fish are occasionally taken there which are in anything but the pink of condition. Fishing there lately, I hooked a cod two feet long, and was somewhat surprised to see the feeble resistance it made. On landing it, however, it was seen to be a most phthisical-looking specimen and in the last stages of emaciation, the bones almost protruding through the skin. Needless to state, his life was spared, and the patient returned to his element. I have frequently seen emaciated specimens of the cod family, but as they were full grown, fishermen attributed this to old age, but this was certainly not the case with our catch, it being but half grown.

I often wonder if any one has noticed the following peculiarity. When fish show an unusual tenacity of life, that is, after being gutted and cleaned, exhibit strong muscular action for some time after, that this phenomenon invariably precedes a change of some kind in the weather, usually more wind or heavier sea. This at least is my experience from several years’ observations.

The remaining patches of white whelk ova now appear flaccid and empty. Brushing the hand over the apparently empty capsules, a granular deposit adheres to the skin, which on close examination is seen to be minute whelks. Even with the aid of the lens the sulci or furrow, through which boring operations are conducted, is not yet apparent, but which later is common to this species. The rocks at present are thickly sewn with these juveniles, and myriads of adults are busy clearing the rocks of barnacles and immature mussels. As late as 28th July a solitary paidle-cock was seen guarding its nest; this is unusually late, as they are generally finished nursing by the end of June.

The middle of July brought us our first young tern, and towards the close of the month several were in attendance. A large school of bottle-nose whales crossed the reef on the last Sunday of July, their puffing and blowing being quite audible as they headed north, probably after herring.

Pleasure steamers from Dundee have been frequently round the Rock during June and July, some of the trippers evidently enjoying the sail, others emphatically not. One of the passengers, as the steamer got to windward of us, favoured us with a cornet solo, which we gratefully acknowledged with a dip of our flag. On several evenings an hour’s fishing was given the passengers, but their catches could scarcely be expected to have any appreciable influence on the market. Broken weather, excessive rain, with occasional thunderstorms, describes the weather we have been having, the seasonable days of sunshine and warmth being few and far between.

_AUGUST 1903._

A month of variable weather, much rain and heavy seas occasionally compelling the boats engaged in the herring fishing to run for it. Dearly bought indeed is their silvery freight as they thresh their way homewards followed by a stiff sou’-easter, their oilskins glistening with repeated drenchings, and twelve miles’ ploughing and a doubtful bar yet to be negotiated ere safety is reached. How different! no running for home with us; here we remain secure and comfortable amid the hurly-burly, and trust to the stability of the grand old building for our safety. Right well does it merit our confidence. After a century’s buffetings with the elements, not a single sign of weakening in the never ceasing conflict is evident. Surely a creditable testimony to the honesty of the labour employed in its erection.

That herring are occasionally in our vicinity is evidenced by the industrious diving of the gannets, accompanied by large flocks of gulls and terns, and also by the presence of whales snorting and puffing close to the Rock. At low water the reef is covered with gulls and terns resting from their labours of the tide. Scorning such relaxment, the gannets, wheeling and diving, maintain their ceaseless chase, establishing their kinship with that bird of the Ancient Mariner, the tireless albatross. A skua or robber-gull has billeted himself amongst the gulls and terns, and is frequently seen harrying them of their legitimate prey. It is surprising that the terns at least, with their needle-pointed bills and belligerent propensities, suffer themselves to be so despoiled, and make no attempt to combine and drive off this pirate on the fruits of their industry. On the contrary, after a fruitless twisting and doubling in mid-air, in which they are invariably worsted, they seem to accept these periodic attacks of the skua as a matter of course.

Amateur fishers have been but seldom in evidence here this summer; even the lobsters have enjoyed a season of comparative rest. Possibly the uncertain state of the weather prevented their usual visits. Towards the close of the month a trio of amateurs cast anchor--or rather what does duty as such--within hail of our kitchen window, a favourite spot of theirs. Lines were no sooner down than a brisk business began in cod, varied by an occasional poddley which has little or no market value, but which to us here is always acceptable, and forms the principal part of our catches. Several good catches of these have been taken here during the month. What appears to be whitings two inches in length is seen to be their food at present. The terns also are seen to be on similar diet, and though engaged in conveying a mouthful to their young ones, it in no way impedes their full flow of language, nor muffles in the slightest degree their strident throat notes.

During the unusually low tides occurring this month an opportunity was afforded of examining a most peculiar form of animal life of which I have nowhere seen any account. Attached to the rocks amongst groups of corallines this curious object[2] has all the semblance of a bird’s claw. Imagine the leg of a bird amputated at the knee, firmly fastened to the rock by the cut end, and imbued with life, and you have a fair idea of this animal. About half an inch in length, the “leg” is seen to be composed of segments, and terminates in three toes, furnished with sharp, curved claws, which keep up a constant clutching--at what is not apparent; but the action strongly reminds one of a similar effect produced by juveniles who have become the proud possessor of a hen’s foot, and for a piece of slate pencil--the usual juvenile currency--demonstrate to admiring companions the utility of the extensor muscles.

Last month we had the unique experience of being serenaded by the Dundee trippers with a cornet solo, but the last Saturday of this month fairly eclipsed this performance. As we were about to sit down to tea we were somewhat startled to hear the regular beat of a drum and the unmistakeable music of the bagpipes. A hasty survey from the kitchen window sent us flying to the balcony, there to witness the novel sight of a ship, manned by boys--a training brig evidently, bound for Dundee. Bearing down upon us from the eastward, she approached close to the Tower, the tide being about full. Flag courtesies being exchanged, crowds of juvenile faces were seen lining the rail, while midships pipers discoursed some lively music, including the “Cock o’ the North.” The wind being light, the vessel made but little way, and as she slowly crossed the reef the youngsters lustily cheered us, which we returned as best we could. Breaking into song, the whole ship’s company favoured us with “Poor Cock Robin,” the youthful voices having a most pleasing effect in the stillness of a really beautiful summer’s evening. Applauding our loudest, cheers were again exchanged as she slowly drifted beyond our hearing, the whole scene strongly reminiscent of “H.M.S. Pinafore.”

[2] Whale-louse.

_SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 1903._

The man that pours the water out has certainly been paying attention to his business, and in conjunction with the puffy bellower of storms favoured us with weather anything but peaceful. Unlike the farmers, we have little cause of complaint. No sodden fields or ruined crops appal the eye, for even after a “regular snorter” things here remain pretty much as they were. True, the aspect changes as the season advances. The whitewashed appearance of the rock surface in summer, due to the presence of the acorn barnacle, has now vanished--thanks to the voracity of the white whelk--and the rocks appear in their natural colour, a reddish-brown. The “sere and yellow” is well represented in the once luxuriant crops of heavy tangles, but lately swaying on the surface with a freshness and beauty peculiarly their own, now storm-tossed, frayed and abraded, denuded of their palm-like fronds, they appear but a vestige of their former selves. The turbulent state of the weather interferes seriously with our fishing, keeping the poddlies at a respectful distance from our door; indeed, any approach in our direction at present would certainly denote suicidal mania on their part. At a safe distance outside the breakers, they are to be seen playing on the surface in the early morning and evening, so that our expectations are still high should the weather but abate.

The eider ducks, which on the 20th September were represented by a solitary individual--the first arrival--now number over a hundred. The longtails are still awanting to complete our list, but their advent may be looked for early next month. On suitable nights for the past two months we have always had some feathered visitors “becking and booing” to us through the lantern. On 4th October an extremely rare visitor--here at least--made its appearance, namely, the ring-ousel, the first I have seen. In size, shape, and general colouring, this migrant might easily be mistaken for a hen blackbird, but for the conspicuous white crescent across the throat, in this instance somewhat faint, but well defined, owing possibly to the bird being in immature plumage. On the morning of the 24th October over two dozen tiny gold-crest wrens were circling round our lantern, jostling and tumbling over each other in frantic efforts to keep in line with the white flash, the red flash evidently having no attraction for them. A skylark and robin were also of the company, as well as several redwings. The robin always seems to have a truer sense of his position than any other of our visitors. While the others clamour futilely against the glass he maintains an aloofness and self-possession truly remarkable. His eyes seem to be everywhere, and only with difficulty and the exercise of a little strategy is his capture effected. Of course, our captures are but temporary, and merely for the sake of a few minutes’ examination.

We had rather a disappointing experience with the Channel Fleet while cruising in these waters last month (September). Passing north in the dark, we were quite unaware of their presence, the _Sutlej_ alone being seen later steaming north at 6 p.m. on the 21st, nearer to Arbroath than to us. On returning south a string of brilliant lights passing three miles outside of us at two o’clock in the morning was all we saw of the procession.

On 29th October a flock of thirteen field-fares passed at 9 a.m., flying towards Arbroath. This is the first arrival here of these birds, and earlier than usual.

On examining a lark which had been killed on the lantern the other night, a small land shell was found adhering to the feathers on the under part of the body. Arguing from this instance, the assumption that they also are imbued with the migratory instinct and adopt this mode of travelling would probably be considered far-fetched. That there is much undreamt of in our philosophy is as pregnant as when uttered, and possibly the connection between mollusc and bird was due to circumstances other than purely accidental.

_NOVEMBER 1903._