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Updated: June 27, 2025
It drifted stealthily past, and a little behind, flying low, came a solitary seagull, grey as the river's haze a following bird. Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old fishing smack, blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock of the waves, and the thud and curl of falling foam as the old boat's blunt nose breasted the coming sea. Then Daddy Whiddon spoke.
Heavy in build though he was he was not six yards behind me, and I could see the white of his eyes and the red of his gums. I saw something else a glint of white metal in his hand. He still had his knife. Fear sent me up the rocks like a seagull, and I scrambled and leaped, making for the corner I knew of. Something told me that the pursuit was slackening, and for a moment I halted to look round.
I had not thought of flying as a modern requisite for a commercial career." "The real thing in high finance, eh?" says I. "And, say, me for the air after this! I've swallowed the bug. I know how a bloomin' seagull feels when he's on the wing; and, believe me, it's got everything else in the sport line lookin' like playin' tag with your feet tied!"
Shod with his golden, winged sandals, which bear him, swift as the wind, over moist and dry, and holding in his hand his magic wand, Hermes skimmed like a seagull over the blue waters of the Ægæan, until he came to that far distant isle.
And lying there in bed I minded how I once fell in with Jock McGilp, the captain of the smuggler Seagull, a man that sailed the Gull like a witch, and cracked his fingers at the Revenue cutters, and this was the way of it. When I was a lonely boy, dreaming dreams of ages past and long ago, I had a favourite haunt.
I love the white beads as I love best to wear a white robe myself, or a white rabbit hood in winter. In the woods I always pick the white flowers, and I love the white wild pigeon best of all the birds except the white seagull. And the white soft clouds high in the heavens I love better than the red and yellow ones when the sun goeth down to sleep in the west. Yet I cannot say why it is so."
A plump barnyard fowl might as well have talked of making allowances for a seagull! Alan walked home with Isabel King but he was very silent as they went together down the long, dark, sweet-smelling country road bordered by its white orchards. Isabel put her own construction on his absent replies to her remarks and presently she asked him, "Did you think Lynde Oliver handsome?"
I, who was a sort of Brutus, and oughtn't to have done it, you hinted. May Mr. Chorley's periodical live a thousand years! As my 'Seagull' won't, but you will find it in my new edition, and the 'Doves' and everything else worth a straw of my writing.
Her legs certainly seemed stuck into her like pencils, as with a robin or a seagull. She adored everything that had wings and flew; she was of the air; it was her element. Maria's passions were unknown.
Perhaps the "Seagull" might be lost she thought, without pain or sorrow, of the possible death of the man who loved her as few love. Even if he returned, he might have forgotten her or never find her. She did not feel very unhappy or ill at ease the chances, she thought, were many in her favor. She had but one thing to do to keep all knowledge of her secret from Lord Earle.
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