What on earth is so happy as the life of a gull? With pinions which can bear him at any time almost with the speed of a wish to the clear and cool depths of the upper air, or where the waters sleep in perfect tranquility or, if he loves excitement, into the very heart of a storm or, as now, when the genial breeze is sending the waters with gentle surges upon the shores the gull seems formed specially for an existence of unalloyed felicity. Too insignificant a prey for man hardly dreading a foe in "winter and rough weather" he sails in indifferent to the future, alike the etherial deep, or sways with the foam of the rolling billows. I believe he entertains similar notions, for his shrill note rises high upon the breeze, its weird music sounding in joy.