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.