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176 At last when it is well on in the afternoon, the partner bird flies up and stands for some minutes preening itself, whilst the one on the nest, who is turned away, throws back the head towards it and opens and shuts the bill somewhat widely, as in greeting, several times. The newcomer then jumps and waddles to the further side of the nest, so as to front the sitting bird, and sinking down against it with a manner and action full both of affection and a sense of duty, this one is half pushed, half persuaded to leave, finally doing so with the accustomed grotesque hop. As it comes down on the rock it turns towards the other who is now settling on to the eggs, and, throwing up its head into the air, opens the bill so as to show (or at any rate showing) the brightly coloured space within.

All this it does with the greatest—what shall we say? Not exactly empressement, but character—it is a character part. There is an indescribable expression in the bird—all over it—as of something vastly important having been accomplished, of relief, of satisfaction, of summum bonum, and, also, of a certain grotesque and gargoil-like archness—but as though all these were only half-consciously felt. She then (for I think it is the female), before flying away, picks up a white feather from the ledge and passes it to the male, now established on the nest, who receives and places it. It has all been nearly in silence, only a few low, guttural notes having passed between the birds, whilst they were close together.

Just in the same way the birds relieve each other after the eggs have been hatched and when the young are being fed and attended to.