# The Bird Watcher in the Shetlands/Chapter 36

CHAPTER XXXVI
COMPARING NOTES
WHO would have thought that this same gull—the herring-gull—which kills and devours the young kittiwakes and puffins, besides living, habitually, 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 occasional 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 comparing 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, ​watching my dear seals, there was a down-dropping on my right trouser (workman's cords at 6s. 6d.), 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 ​of this kind would be both interesting and instructive. 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 increase 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 collection 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 Molière, or Heine—in those surroundings. That was the time to read—for it's all over now—amongst ​the "thens," the shadows—a dream, and so is everything.
This was my last discovery—for it was one for me. Soon after I made it I left this wild northern promontory, 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 appreciate. 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 conversation. 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 ​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 Edmondstone, 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 approved my emendation here), any other species is to be found around the Shetland coasts. Yet his description of the skin-markings of both the male and ​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 particularly so; and this was the most salient feature presented. As I saw it, indeed, the belly, turned upwards 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. Therefore, I cannot quite understand any one who has seen it describing the animal other than in terms of admiration, 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 ​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 nihil—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. ​Probably, therefore, it can catch fish in both. In regard to the female of the great seal, Dr. Edmondstone says, "The skin is of a paler colour, more or less patched with darkish blue, and becomes lighter 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 vitulina." 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 barbata, sometimes raised the head out of the water, and she may have swum with it so, occasionally 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, ​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 resting 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 vidette 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 Edmondstone 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 ​one were stalking an animal at the time, it would be easy to construe such action into a wish to protect it; but here no other creature was in 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—forgetting 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 conviction, 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 everything 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 ​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 ascending 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 represented 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 unsuccessful, efforts to get up on to, could only by possibility be scaled when the tide was at the full, and ​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 everywhere—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 particular 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—I 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 ​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 or 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. However, though the carcase is, as I 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 understandable 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 ​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 convenient, 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, ​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 practicability. It is a very good law, and I wish I had always been governed by it too—I mean beforehand.