Look at them. Some have broad bills, with a white stripe on it, and cry something like the moor-hens at home. Those are razor-bills.
And what are those who say “marrock,” something like a parrot?
The ones with thin bills? they are guillemots, “murres” as we call them in Devon: but in some places they call them “marrocks,” from what they say.
And each has a little baby bird swimming behind it. Oh! there: the mother has cocked up her tail and dived, and the little one is swimming about looking for her! How it cries! It is afraid of the yacht.
And there she comes up again, and cries “marrock” to call it.
Look at it swimming up to her, and cuddling to her, quite happy.
Quite happy. And do you not think that any one who took a gun and shot either that mother or that child would be both cowardly and cruel?
But they might eat them.
These sea-birds are not good to eat. They taste too strong of fish-oil. They are of no use at all, except that the gulls’ and terns’ feathers are put into girls’ hats.
Well they might find plenty of other things to put in their hats.