August 1901.AUGUST 1901.
AUGUST 1901.
Theextreme heat prevalent in the earlier part of this month was characterised by a number of unusual visitors but ill adapted for any lengthened sojourn here. Butterflies, bees, wasps, and moths innumerable were to be seen flitting about the rocks in the daytime and clinging to the lantern at night, numbers of them being drowned every time the rocks were submerged. Several daddy-longlegs and a single specimen of the beautiful painted butterfly were seen among the ill-fated host. Why they should have journeyed to such inhospitable quarters is not very apparent, but possibly the steady westerly wind then blowing was responsible for their presence here, and, finding themselves unable to stem the current, like many other unfortunates, they followed the line of leastresistance—then,Facilis descensus Averni, and there you are! We have frequent glimpses at present of an exportation of which the statute-books take no cognisance. Quantities of thistledown are to be seen careering before the off-shore wind, probably with Norway for their future home. What a wonderful provision of Nature that enables these mute messengers of the fleeting summer to virtually wing their way to pastures new! suggestive in their silent flight of the
... whisper down the field,Where the year has shot her yield,And the ricks stand grey to the sun.
... whisper down the field,Where the year has shot her yield,And the ricks stand grey to the sun.
... whisper down the field,
Where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand grey to the sun.
The sea in our vicinity is just now actually alive with shoals of immature fish, chiefly sand-eels, herring-fry, and what appears to us to be finger-long whitings. Incessant war is being continually waged upon them by the terns from above and the poddlies from below. Watch this particular shoal of “fry” as it swims with the current past our door; notice the orderliness which prevails amongst them, as of a disciplined army. But from below the poddlies have sighted them, and swift as light they are amongst them with a deadly rush. Completely disorganised, the “fry” scatter in every direction. Some seek shelter beneath the glassy domes of the passing jelly fishes; others, twisting and doubling like hares coursed by hounds, spurt spasmodically along the surface in their frantic endeavours to escape the enemies destined by nature for their destruction. The successful raiders are seen scurrying about, with their glistening prizes dangling from their mouths, dodging the thieving attacks of their less successful brethren in the foray. But suddenly a flash of bronze in the bright sunshine betokens the leap of the lordly lythe, as he in turn seizes his victim from amongst the attacking force and as quickly returns to his lurking-place among the luxuriant tangles. And so the war is waged, the strong preying upon the weak, right down the chain of life, till the unaided eye can but discern the destroyer alone. One is apt to experience a feeling of revulsion at the tactics pursued by the lythe in thus lurking concealed, while above him his prey sport in blissful ignorance of his presence. On the other hand, with what little compunction do we ourselves, by every available means, harry their numbers to supply our table, and a savoury dish they are at present; cooked when freshly caught they are simply delicious.
On Saturday the 10th we had a heavy thunderstorm; the lightning was extremely vivid, and appeared to zig-zag from the sea to the zenith, while the thunder, at first resembling the rippling discharge of small arms, gradually increased to the deep boom of heavy ordnance. The hitherto unbroken sea was threshed into white foam by the heaviest rain I have ever seen here. The poddlies, though busy amongst the “fry” at the time, would not deign to look at our “fly,” and, though we tried our best, we did not succeed in hooking a single one. A similar result is experienced during the operation of our explosive fog-signal. As an instance how fish of the same kind may differ, there is a circular pool on the Rock at low water, a couple of fathoms deep and about four fathoms in diameter, named Neill’s Pool, but which we have jocularly nicknamed “the hospital,” as the poddlies taken from there are, as a rule, extremely poor in flesh, often presenting queer abnormities. Some are twisted and deformed; others have constrictions upon their bodies, where at some period of their existence they had been almost cut in two by the snap of some larger fish, probably a lythe; others, again, have been taken with hooks embedded in their jaws and gills, and, though in the last stages of emaciation, do not apparently profit by their former experience. The full-grown lythe may be truly termed the poor man’s salmon, not from a food point ofview—though in itself not to bedespised—but as a source of sport. Equipped with a rod such as fishermen use who fish for a living, and for a lure preferably a fresh-water eel about six or seven inches long, skinned from the “busking” downwards, a struggle with one of these lusty fish imparts most of the pleasurable sensations of the salmon fisher. Possibly at the first cast your lure is flipped clean out of the water by a vanishing tail, denoting that his lordship has not quite made up his mind about your invitation. However, your next cast is almost sure to be followed by a swift rush, which carries him well out of the water, and your lure is off to the bottom and possibly your tackle along with it, for, despite your triple gut, unless great care is exercised in the first few mad rushes, there will be a dissolution of partnership. Easily fagged, once you succeed in getting his head above the surface, a little judicious towing will land your two-feet bronzed beauty at your feet.