"'White spirits and gray,' I call them," said the younger of the two
spectators. "The gulls fascinate me always. They are beautiful to see and
hear and paint. Swimming there, and wheeling between the seas in rough
weather, or hanging almost motionless in midair with their heads turning
first this way, then that, and their breasts pressed against the wind--
why, they are perfect always, the little winged gods of the sea."
"Gods kissing carrion," sneered the other. "Beautiful enough, no doubt, but
their music holds no charm for me. Nothing is quite beautiful which has for
its cause something ugly. Those echoing cries down there are the expression
of a greedy struggle, no more. I hate your Newlyn gulls. They are ruined,
like a thousand other wild things, by civilization. I see them scouring the
fields and hopping after the plowman like upland crows. A Cornish seabird
should fight its battle with the sea and find its home in the heart of the
dizzy cliffs, sharing them with the samphire. But your 'white spirits and
gray' behave like gutter-fed ducks."
The first speaker laughed and both strolled upon their way. They were
artists, but while Edmund Murdoch dwelt at Newlyn and lived by his
profession, the older man, John Barron, was merely on a visit to the place.
He had come down for change and with no particular intention to work.
Barron was wealthy and wasted rare talents.
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