The coastguard station, with whitewashed walls gleaming and flagstaff with halyards all taut, makes a good mark along this coast, which is certainly not thickly populated now, to judge by the number of crumbling houses and villages partially deserted. The fishing coves hold their own, but the cry of "back to the land" has not been much heeded in these parts.

The man in blue uniform, with spy-glass under his arm, is always an attractive personage; he is so human, though official; so fresh and breezy, so ready to help the passing ship in danger, and do grand deeds in storm and tempest. England's watchfulness and strength is writ large upon the coastguard station, and the men are uniformly intelligent and good-mannered. A strange mixture of blood—Great Britain in epitome—may be found in one small station we halted at, namely, two Irish, one Scotch, one Novocastrian, and one Devonian—not a dash of Cornish blood at a Cornish station. A native might wink the other eye if his own flesh and blood did a bit of free trading in spirits and tobacco, and only run with his "two left legs" after a culprit related to himself. The men, as a rule, have seen the world, read a great deal, and pass their time in thinking—not very much else to do when on duty but watch and think.

If you'll be good enough to listen, the coast-guardsman will talk. The sea-gulls are very chummy with the men, know the uniform, and like to come and help them in their garden patches. Guy told a man one day that the gulls were a bit out of favour just now with Londoners because they had a weakness for sparrows, feathers and all; but the coastguard wasn't surprised at the gull, only at the sparrow. He thought that London sparrows were too artful to be picked up in that way by a simple sea bird. He told us some stories about sea-gulls. They are fond of young kittens and puppies that nobody wants and throws into the water. The fur increases the luxury of the bonne bouche. Then rabbits. Woe to the young thing that they tap with their powerful bills! A gull will kill a rabbit caught in a gin and feast on its eyes. Then they are famous poachers, stealing the eggs of birds nesting in the cliffs, and carrying off the newly hatched. But ravens and crows take reprisals and make the gull sorry at times. Our coastguard told us this little story:—

"There was a gull sitting on a rock below this station, and I watched the pair day by day. The male bird is very attentive, and feeds the hen, and watches over her, and takes her place on the nest when she takes an airing. A pair of ravens took an interest in the proceedings, and one day, when the male bird was away foraging, they executed a scheme for robbing the sea-gull's eggs. It was very neat in its way. The ravens flew round and round the sitting hen, screaming defiance; but the hen only sat the tighter. Then they circled closer and closer, and flapped their black wings in the hen's face. This insult was too much. The gull's blood was up, and she rose from her nest. Then the ravens separated, and whilst the gull chased number one, number two picked up an egg in its bill and flew back to quarters, where number one joined it, and the two shared the stolen egg. Some people say birds have no reason. Well, I'd like to see cunning strategy better carried out. The little Japs couldn't do better."

The silver-grey gull is in paradise in the fishing villages, and takes possession of the boats, and quays, and roofs of houses, and helps itself out of the "flaskets" filled with fish, or from the heaps lying on the stones. A bigger thief does not live and escape punishment. If anything floats on the water in the harbour, the gull swoops down upon it and it is gone; if anything is left unprotected, the gull has it. What a gull will eat, and want no liver pill, would make any other respectable bird on the wing bilious; but the gull is always bright and cheerful, and ready for another gorge, and its natural store of gastric juice would set up a chemical factory. When fish is scarce the gull goes inland and feeds upon the fields, or joins the noble army of poachers over gentlemen's preserves.

On the wing the gull is the spirit of poetry, and in storm the spirit of the tempest; the fishers look on it as a friend, because it hovers over the "schools" of fish swimming in the sea, and warns them of approaching storm. The gull is the link between the fisher and his home, flies after the boats when they go out, and heralds their return. The women look out of their windows in the early morn, and see the gull resting and waiting for the offal to be thrown away when the boats land their catches. Then they know the boats are near, and that the men will be home soon, with fish strung upon their fingers for the morning meal. The gull is the household bird by adoption, and the women don't begrudge it what it steals.

The dark rocks outside the fishing towns swarm with sea-gulls—specketty-brown gulls, grey and white gulls with ebony-tipped wings, gulls with brown and gulls with yellow beaks, gulls flying, gulls swimming, gulls sleeping, gulls on outpost duty. Without these birds the rocks would be very tame. A swarm of gulls in the air is one of the prettiest sights in nature; and then the cry of the gull is the cry of a human soul in agony, which perhaps it is.

The Legend of St. Goeland.

In the days when Lyonesse was land, a poor hermit dwelt upon a rock, whereon he had built for himself a chapel, which was but a shelter of rude stones to protect him, but it was called a "chapel" because it had been signed with the sign of the cross, and he said his prayers therein. The rock was storm-swept, and was at the head of a bay, beautiful in summer, but terrible in winter, and the bay was only a trap to poor mariners, and every rock could tell its tragedy. St. Goeland was a Breton, born in a fishing village, and when he came across there flew after him a sea-gull, which he had befriended. It was all the same to the sea-bird where it dwelt if the sea was but there, and the bird wished to be with St. Goeland.

The rock on which the saint built his chapel was known as the Gull Rock, and there was nothing living visible but solemn shags resting by night, and sea-birds on the wing at all times; no human dwelling or habitation disturbed the pious meditations of the saint, who feasted when snails were in season, and on Fridays fresh fish was always brought to him by his devoted gull. At other times the gull brought sea-birds' eggs, and laid them down outside the chapel door. Fresh sea-birds' eggs are simply delicious when boiled.

St. Goeland did not live a useless life, for outside his chapel there was a cage which he filled with dry sticks, lighting it when there was fog about, and then hoisting it aloft to warn mariners to keep clear of the treacherous bay. "St. Goeland's lantern" became known, far and wide. One day the saint picked up a bell which had been washed ashore; so he built a rude belfry and hung it, and then "St. Goeland's Bell" was heard by mariners at sea whenever there was danger of being caught upon a lee shore. When the wind veered round to danger point the old gull used to give the saint a note of warning, and the saint would rise from his soundest sleep and pull on the rope, so the sound of the bell was carried down the wind, and mariners gave the treacherous coast a wide berth. The saint never knew the good he did, but did it, not knowing. Now, what with cutting and stacking faggots for the "lantern," and ringing the bell, St. Goeland was sometimes very busy, and he and his gull grew old together. The silver-grey feathers were almost as white as the saint's silver hair. When the saint was troubled he talked to the bird, which was saddened when he said, "We have grown old together, and what will happen to the poor mariners when there is no one to light the lantern and sound the bell?"

It came to pass that a ship filled with pilgrims was making for the land, and would have come and anchored in the bay when the wind veered, and the old gull gave its note of warning; but St. Goeland was too feeble to rise, and the tears came into his eyes. The pilgrim ship was sailing joyously towards destruction, and the bell was silent! The gull cried louder; the wind rose, and the ship was on her way; soon she would be on a lee shore, and then——

St Goeland made a supreme effort, and clutched the rope. "My God!" he shrieked, and fell, and the bell sounded. But the gull heard the shriek and the bell's note mingled, and carried it against the wind; and those on board the pilgrim ship heard, and drew off the land, saying, it was "St. Goeland's warning," which it was, only they did not know that the saint passed away when the bell pealed his requiem.

From that time the sea-gull's cry is that of a human soul in agony mingled with the note of a "passing bell." All mariners, and fishers, and dwellers by the sea, know it well, and woe to the man who lays finger on a gull, except in kindness!

"The sea-gull," said Guy, "is an utterly unproductive animal, fit for nothing but to look at. What it destroys is incalculable, and yet some yarn like this, invented Heaven knows when, makes it almost a sacred bird."

The Bookworm had little to say, except that people were more influenced by sentiment than they knew or suspected.

Guy pooh-poohed "sentiment," and said he'd wring a couple of gulls' necks the next morning before breakfast.

He went out with that idea, but a warning voice reached him. Then he tried to "negociate" a purchase, and a big fist brought down in the man's palm warned him that the transaction was, in diplomatic language, "delicate." Guy owned up that there was something, after all, in "sentiment."

Sea-gulls are privileged in this part of the world.