The Guillemots (Uria), [Fig. 84], have the beak long, straight, convex above, somewhat angular below, a little curved and hollowed at the extremity of each mandible; the legs are short, compressed, and placed well behind the body; the three anterior toes are united by the same membrane; the claws recurved and pointed; no hind toe; the wings are straight, and the tail short. These birds, when placed on the ground, raise themselves with great difficulty, owing to the conformation of their legs. They only come ashore when driven there for shelter by the storm, or for breeding. For the latter purpose they choose some precipitous coast where the rocks project in ledges, from which they can throw themselves into the sea if they are disturbed. Boldly-scarped cliffs, which rise perpendicularly from the waves, are consequently their favourite breeding-places. There it is necessary to seek them. Unfortunately, the demand for the wings and down of the Guillemots has reached a point which is not unlikely to lead to their extermination. One London dealer, we are told, has given an order at Ailsa Craig, on the Clyde, for a thousand sea-birds weekly; and the tacksman of the rock is so intent on supplying the demand, that he spreads his nets while the birds are sitting on the newly-hatched young, which are thus left in thousands to perish from being deprived of a mother's fostering care.
Among the Guillemots, the female lays only one large egg. They feed on fishes, insects, and crustacea. They principally inhabit northern regions, visiting our shores and other temperate climates when the ice has invaded their summer home. In their migratory journeys they must trust to their wings—which, however, as already observed, are very short. They are consequently not possessed of long powers of flight, and skim the surface of the water, rarely rising much above the surface. Their progress, however, is sharp and rapid, but of short duration. The Guillemots during winter are frequently seen in immense numbers on Rock-all Bank and on the banks of Newfoundland. So little are they alarmed at the approach of a vessel, that should they be directly in her track, they will only dive to save themselves. These banks are several hundred miles from land.
The whole race of aquatic birds of which we have spoken, whether Divers, Penguins, Grebes, or Guillemots, are, in these northern regions, a valuable resource, where vegetation almost entirely ceases. The poor people whose lot compels them to live there obtain in their feathers, skin, oil, and eggs, clothing, food, and light during their long and gloomy winter. But to obtain what they truly consider a blessing from heaven, they have to surmount innumerable difficulties, the birds often building their nests in islets almost unapproachable, or on rocks rising perpendicularly out of the water. Slung upon seats hung from the summits of these crags, the courageous islanders suspend themselves, in the breeding season, to gather and make, so to speak, a harvest of the sea-fowls' eggs. Some of these men walk along the rocky coast, furnished with a conical net attached to the end of a pole, which enables them to secure the birds flying around them, much in the same manner as boys catch butterflies in the meadows.
But chasing these graceful swimmers at the foot of their rocky retreat is mere trifling; the dramatic and dangerous incidents occur at the summit of the steep, giant cliffs. The intrepid inhabitants of the Feroë Islands, which are situated to the north of Scotland, between Norway and Iceland, in the Atlantic Ocean, proceed as follows in the search after eggs. The fowler begins operations by swarming, as schoolboys call it, up a pole, which carries him to the first projecting ledge of the rocks. This point attained, he throws a knotted rope to his companions, who soon join him on the aërial cliffs. The same manœuvre is performed, stage by stage, until they reach the summit. But this is nothing; he has now to visit the recesses in which the nests are to be found.
Fig. 85.—Catching Birds and gathering Eggs in the Feroë Islands.
Upon the edge of the rock a beam is run out horizontally; to this beam a two-inch rope, which is not less than nine hundred feet in length, is attached. To the end of this immense line a plank is tied, upon which the fowler seats himself. This man holds in his hand a light cord for the purpose of signalling to his companions above. The fowler, thus seated, descends from cliff to cliff, and from rock to rock; he visits every nook and cranny in search of plunder, making an ample harvest of eggs and birds, either taking them by hand, or striking them with the end of his line. The product of his perilous expedition he places in a sort of haversack, which he carries slung from the shoulder. When he wishes to change his place, he gives a preconcerted signal with his cord, imparting an oscillating motion to it in the direction of that part of the rock he wishes to visit. When the harvest is deemed sufficient—when the day's sport is concluded—his companions are notified, and the fowler is hoisted to the summit of the cliff.
How incredible is the address, and how great the courage, required to induce a man to let himself be suspended by a slender cord over a precipice some hundreds of feet in height, and how hazardous, how frightful the peril! The cord might be cut by chafing against the sharp rock. What risks he runs on changing his place! It has sometimes happened to those above to hear one loud heart-rending shriek—the cry of despair. The men who hold the rope lean forward—they see nothing—they hear only the great voice of the sea, which drowns all other sounds as it breaks against the island. They hasten to draw up the cord—alas! its reduced weight too plainly tells what has happened! The fowler has been seized with vertigo; or, probably, he has overreached himself and lost his equilibrium on the slippery stones, and the wave which roars at the base of this wall of rock has closed over him.
It is such accidents as these which induce the inhabitant of the Feroë Islands, when he leaves his house on such an expedition, to bid farewell to his family. Fatal catastrophes, however, are not very frequent. Men who live in those climates which nature seems to have, as it were, disinherited, become accustomed to struggle with the elements, and almost always to triumph over the dangers which surround them. They go to demand from the abyss food for their wives and children, and the idea animates and sustains their courage.