WHEN DARKNESS HAS FALLEN.
A time of absolute quiet can never be observed in the country. It
matters not as to time and season; there seems to be no general period
of repose. There is always something abroad, some creature of the
fields and woods, which by its voice or movements is betrayed. Just as
in an old rambling house there are always strange noises that cannot be
accounted for, so in the by-paths of nature there are innumerable
sounds which can never be localised. To those, however, who pursue
night avocations in the country--gamekeepers, poachers, and
others--there are always calls and cries which bespeak life as animate
under the night as that of the day. This is attributable to various
animals and birds, to night-flying insects, and even to fish. Let us
track some of these sounds to their source.
"When comes still evening on, and twilight grey hath in her sober
liv'ry all things clad," then it is that the white owl comes abroad.
Passing the remains of an old baronial hall, its piercing screech comes
from the dismantled tower. Here the owls have lived time out of mind,
and we have seen and heard them, asleep and awake, through every hour
of the day and night. It is unnatural history to assert, as Mr. Gray
does, that the barn-owls ever mope or mourn or are melancholy. Neither
are they grave monks nor anchorites nor pillared saints. A boding bird
or a dolorous! Nonsense, they are none of these. They issue forth as
very devils, and like another spirit of the night, sail about seeking
whom they may devour. The barn-owl is the "screech" owl of bird
literature; the brown owl the true hooting owl. This species is found
in heavily-timbered districts, and it particularly loves the dark and
sombre gloom of resinous pine woods. But the barn-owl is only the
precursor of new life--life as animate under the night, as that of the
birds and butterflies under the day. We follow the path by the river,
and on through the meadows. Among the nut-bush tops a bat is hawking
for night-flying insects. Great white moths get up from the grass and
go looming away through the darkness. A bend in the stream brings us to
a quiet river reach with brown pebbles and a shallow.
A sentinel heron that has been standing watchful on one leg rises, and
flaps languidly away down the river reach. The consumptive figure of
the gaunt bird stands by the stream through all weathers. He knows not
times nor seasons, and is a great poacher. In the wind, when taking his
lone stand, his loose fluttering feathers look like drift-stuff caught
in the bushes. He reminds one of the consumptive, but, unlike him, has
wonderful powers of digestion, and withal an immense capacity for fish.
Woe to the luckless mort or trout that comes within reach of his
formidable pike, or to the attacking peregrine that he attempts to
impale on his bill. The heron is essentially a wanderer, and, like
Wordsworth's immortal leech-gatherer, he roams from pond to pond, from
moor to moor. Herons come and go by the same routes; and night after
night have we flushed our fisher from the selfsame shallow.
The peculiarly wild whistle of the curlew comes from out the night sky,
and swifts screech for an hour after darkness has fallen. We are now by
the covert side, and a strange churring sound comes from out the
darkened glades. Waiting silently beneath the bushes, it approaches
nearer and nearer until a loud flapping is heard in the bushes. The
object approaches quite closely, and it is seen that the noise is
produced by a large bird striking its wings together as they meet
behind. Even in the darkness it may be detected that each wing is
crossed by a definite white bar. The bird is a goatsucker or nightjar.
Had we it in our hand, we should see that it was a connecting link
between the owls and the swallows, having the soft plumage and
noiseless flight of the one and the wide gape of the other. The object
of the noise it produces is probably to disturb from the bushes the
large nightflying moths upon which it feeds. The name goatsucker the
bird has from a superstitious notion that it sucks goats and cows--a
myth founded probably upon the fact of its wide gape. It is certain
that these birds may often be seen flitting about the bellies of cattle
as they stand knee-deep in the summer pastures. The reason of this is
obvious, as there insect food is always abundant. Unless disturbed, the
nightjar rarely comes abroad during the day, but obtains its food at
twilight and dusk. Upon the limestone-covered fells it conforms
marvellously to its environment, it being almost impossible to detect
its curiously mottled plumage as it basks upon the grey stones, not
more still than itself. Here it lays its two eggs, often without the
slightest semblance of a nest, frequently upon the bare rock. Quite a
peculiar interest attaches to the bird, inasmuch as it is furnished
with a remarkable claw, the use of which is guessed at rather than
known. This claw is serrated on its inner edge, and from actual
experiments made upon nightjars in captivity, we should surmise that
its use is to free the long whiskers from the soft, silvery dust which
usually covers the bodies of night-flying moths. Certain it is that
this substance gets upon the whiskers of the bird, and that the long
hairs referred to are combed through the serrated claw. About the mouth
the goatsucker is very swallow-like. It has a bullet-shaped head, large
eyes, and a wide gape. Like the swallows, too, it has a weak,
ineffective bill, and weak feet. This is explained by the fact that the
bird, except when nesting, is rarely seen on the ground, and that it
captures its insect prey on the wing. From twilight till grey does the
fern-owl "churr" and fly through the night.
As we proceed, a splash comes from the river, and some large-winged fly
has been sucked under. The night food comes on, and the reach boils.
Water-rats, voles, and shrews are busy among the stones searching for
insect larvæ, or gnawing the stalks of water-plants. The wafting of
wings overhead betokens a curlew flying through the darkness to its
feeding ground. The peculiarly lonely wail of the summer-snipe comes
down stream, and a teal stretches her neck low over the sand. The river
here resolves itself into a gorge, and runs deep betwixt shelving
rocks. The water ceaselessly moans and chafes down there in the
darkness. Badgers have their haunt deep in the brambles, their tortuous
burrows running far out among the boulders. From the tree-tops we may
watch them digging for roots and wasps' nests, and now and then
snapping at flies. Passing the deep dub by the "Force," we find old
Phil, the fisher, plying his silent trade even thus into the night.
Phil leads his own life, and is contemplative as becomes his craft.
Nature's every sight and sound he has, as it were, by heart, and he
makes friends even with the creeping things. As we watch, a salmon,
fresh from the sea, leaps from the silvery foam and flashes in the
moonlight.
One of the greatest night-helps to the gamekeeper in staying the
depredations of poachers is the lapwing. It is the lightest sleeper of
the fields, starting up from the fallows and screaming upon the
slightest alarm. Poachers dread the detection of this bird, and the
keeper closely follows its cry. A hare rushing wildly past will put the
plover away from its roost; and when hares act thus in the darkness,
there is generally some good cause for it. The skylark and woodlark are
both occasional night-singers, and it is common to hear cuckoos call in
the densest darkness. Still we follow on. Rabbits have made pitfalls in
the loose, yellow sand, and we see their white scuts as vanishing
points in the darkness. Mice rustle away, and a hedgehog comes to the
pool to drink. One of the latter we saw just now taken in the keeper's
trap, the latter baited with a pheasant's egg. The squeal of a foumart
comes from the loose stones. Later it will feed on the frogs now
croaking from the ditch; these it kills by piercing their skulls.
If the cuckoo tells her name to all the hills, so does the
sedge-warbler to the fluted reeds. And, like that wandering voice, our
little bird seems dispossessed of a corporeal existence, and on through
summer is "still longed for, never seen"--and this though common
enough, for you may wander long among the willows, with a bird in every
bush, without one showing outside its corral of boughs. Wherever
vegetation grows tall and luxuriant, there the "reed-wren" may be
found. It travels in the night: you go out some May morning, and the
rollicking intoxication of the garrulous little bird comes from out the
self-same bush from which you missed it in autumn. From the time it
first arrives it begins to sing louder and louder as the warm weather
advances, especially in the evenings. Then it is that it listens to the
loud-swelling bird-choir of the woods, selecting a note from this and
another from that; for the sedge-warbler is an imitator, a mocking
bird, and reproduces in fragments the songs of many species. The little
mimic runs up and down the gamut in the most riotous fashion, parodying
not only the loud, clear whistle of the blackbird, but the wholly
differing soft, sweet notes of the willow-wren. This is kept up through
the night, and the puzzle is when the little musician sleeps. If the
sedge-warbler ceases its song through any hour of the day or night, a
clod thrown into the bushes will immediately set it going again. Yet
what can be said of a song that a clod of earth will produce? Sometimes
for a moment it is sweet, but never long-sustained. In the North, where
there are few ditches, the species frequents river-banks and the sides
of tarns; in the South, it abounds everywhere in marshy places. Here
the rank grass swarms with them; the thicker the reed-patch or willow,
the more birds are there. With perfect silence, a distant view of the
bird is sometimes obtained at the top of the bushes, as it flits after
an insect. As it runs up and clings to the tall grass stalks, it is
pleasing both in form and colour. Among the grasses and water-plants it
has its game preserves. Water-beetles, ephemeræ, and the teeming
aquatic insects constitute its food. To watch through a glass the
obtaining of these is most interesting. Reed-sparrow and reed-wren are
pretty provincial names of the bird, each expressive enough.
A powerful perfume rises from the ground-weeds, and stooping low, we
detect dame's violet. The purple _Hesperis matronalis_ emits its
sweet smell only at night, and is fertilised by moths. This, too, holds
good of the evening campion (_Lychins vespertina_), only its scent
is fainter. For this, however, the colour of its white petals amply
compensates, as they are more easily seen in the darkness. Further on,
we detect _Orchis bifolia_, which is also particularly sweet, and
with the same object. All these emit fragrance at night, and are
fertilised _only_ by night-flying insects. A crash! the underwood
is rudely torn, and a form disappears in the darkness. The crackling of
boughs and dead sticks mark on the stillness of night the poacher's
sinuous path through the woods. Soon his old black bitch slinks by the
hedge, clears the fence at a bound, and doggedly follows her master's
footsteps. Crake answers crake from the meadows as they have done
through the night. Now they are at our feet, now far out yonder. The
night call of the partridge comes from the gorse, and the first
pheasant crows from the larch branches. On the hill we wade through a
herd of recumbent heifers, their sketchy forms sharply outlined in the
darkness. These are quietly chewing the cud, and turn upon us their
great soft eyes; some even press their dewy noses against us. The sweet
breath of kine is wafted on the night, and the drone of many insects.
It is wonderful how lightly the creatures of the fields and woods
sleep. The faintest rustle brings chirping from the bushes, and in the
densest darkness the wood pigeons coo. Jays screech in the glade, and
the wood-owls hoot. One of the essentially night-singers is the
grasshopper warbler. Shy and retiring in its habits, it is rarely found
far distant from aquatic vegetation. Moist situations are most
congenial, as among the plants that effect them it finds its winged
food. Although generally effecting such spots as indicated, it
sometimes seeks out considerable elevations. These are covered with
coarse grass, bent, furze, and heather; and here, far into the night,
it reels out its continuous cricket-like song. It returns to the same
spot year after year, and although from these the particular notes may
be often heard, the singer itself is nowhere to be seen. At the least
noise it drops from the support on which it may be depending into the
grass beneath, then is silent. The song is long continued, but the
sounds are constantly shifting, marking the restless track of the
singer on the night. It needs no stretch of imagination to detect in
the notes of this species the similarity to the grasshopper, and the
"monotonous whirr like the spinning of a fishing-reel," is fairly
expressible of the bird's song. Perfect master of intricate maze and
covert, it is never far from them. Even though it has ventured above
his accustomed limits, its vigilance sends it back at the least noise,
though its retreat is rarely observed, for instead of flying, it creeps
closely, never rising when alarmed. Again we pass into the darkness.
Moles have thrown up ridges of loose, light soil; and these cross us
again and again. The short, sharp bark of a fox comes from the scrub;
and soon dog and vixen answer each other across the dale.
And now we enter the park. The deer, disturbed in the darkness, get up
and walk quietly away. A white fawn is outlined against the dark herd.
Whenever an owner dies, say the menials at the Hall, a great bough is
riven from the giant oak; whenever a new heir comes to the estate, a
white fawn is born. Under the dark slabs by the river the otters breed;
but it is impossible to dislodge them. Iron-sinewed, shaggy
otter-hounds have tried, but never with success. The fishermen complain
of the quantity of fish which the otter destroys. Trout are found dead
on the rocks; salmon are there bitten in the shoulder, but only
partially eaten. The evolutions of the otter in its native element are
the poetry of motion minus only the metre.
When almost the whole of the insect-world has folded its wings in
sleep, there is a class of night-flyers whose hours of activity are
those of darkness. Among the more interesting of these is the male
glow-worm--the English lantern-fly--whose light may be plainly seen as
he flits past, pale and ghostly against the dark background of some
deeply-foliaged bank or shadowy wood. Then there is the great army of
night-flying moths, whose nocturnal wanderings present such a weird
appearance in the darkness, and whose life-history contrasts so sharply
with the sunny dalliance of their butterfly cousins. As moths have to
contend with the night winds their constitution is more robust than
that of the _rhopolocera_, or day-fliers. Their bodies are
thicker, their wings narrower and more strongly nerved. As they settle
themselves on corrugated bark or grey stones to their deep, diurnal
sleep, their sober and inconspicuous colouring invariably saves them
even from detection. In many species this daily trance is so profound
that a slumbering insect may be transfixed and never detect the
occurrence until twilight again comes round. But if the closely-folded
upper wings are quiet and sober in colouring this is only for
protective reasons; for brilliant toilets are presented when twilight
falls and affords its dewy veil. Under the closely-folded wings of
dusky grey are bright bodices of red, scarlet, crimson, and orange.
What an admirable chapter "The Loves of the Night-Flyers" would afford
by one who had fondly watched the fairy things through the dewy hours
of a short summer night.
The twilight-flyers afford a distinct class to the night-flyers,
and have several well-marked characteristics. These are termed
hawk-moths, and have long, sharp, scythe-like wings. The death's-head
moth, the largest and most interesting British species, belongs to
this group. It seldom comes abroad before darkness has fallen, and is
always conspicuous in its nocturnal flight. Linnæus, following his
habitual system of nomenclature, placed this insect in the "sphinx"
family on account of the form of its magnificent caterpillar, and
gave it the specific name of _Atropos_, in allusion to the popular
superstition. Atropos being, according to Hesiod, the one of the
fates whose office it was to cut the thread of human life, spun
by her sisters, Clotho and Lachesis. Modern entomologists have
preserved the idea of Linnæus, giving to the new genus the name of
_acherontia_--pertaining to Acheron, one of the streams which, in the
Greek mythology, have to be passed before entering the infernal
regions. A low, wailing sound which this insect emits has greatly
added to the terror which its appearance inspires among ignorant
rustics. The death's-head moth is a really splendid insect. Its
stretched wings cover four and a half inches, and it is the largest
of the British Lepidoptera. As is well known, it has its popular name
from a marvellously good representation of a skull and crossbones
upon the upper part of the thorax--a mark which has caused it to be
an object of dread in every country which it inhabits. Fluttering at
the window in the darkness, or entering the house by the open door,
just after the close of twilight, it is considered a certain omen of
death. Like the hoarse croak of the raven, and the "boding" hoot
of the owl, the appearance of this moth is said to be followed by
disease and death. The power possessed by the death's-head insect of
emitting a shrill, creaking sound, is thought to be unique among the
British Lepidoptera, and each time the strange sound is emitted, the
whole body gives a convulsive sort of start. The insect can be
induced to utter this strange note by being irritated.
Another especially interesting night-flyer is the ghost moth. Just as
the twilight of a summer evening is deepening into darkness, and a
soft, warm wind stirs the foliage of the woods, the ghost moth comes
abroad. The observer sees a fitful apparition which suddenly vanishes
into space. First a large insect with long wings is seen advancing, it
comes straight on, then flutters in the air--and is gone. Whilst
endeavouring to discover the mysterious retreat of the moth, it will
suddenly reappear, and even whilst the eye closely follows its flight,
will again vanish. This effect is produced by the different colour of
the wings on their upper and lower sides. Above they are snowy white,
and consequently visible even in the deep twilight; but on the under
side they, as well as the whole body, are of a deep dusky brown so that
when that side is suddenly turned towards the spectator it becomes
invisible. As the male flies in the night, the white shining upper
surface of the wings glitters curiously, almost appearing as if they
were giving out their own light.
Standing in one of the rides of a woodland glade just as day is
departing, one is pierced, thrilled by a perfect storm of song. This
loud swelling volume of sound softens as the darkness deepens, and then
only the polyglot wood-thrush is heard. The stem of the silver birch
has ceased to vibrate to the blackbird's whistle, and as darkness comes
a new set of sounds take possession of the night. But passing down
through the meadows we have other thoughts than listening to these.
Another night singer is the blackcap. The flute-like mellowness and
wild sweetness of its song give it a high place among British
warblers--next only to the nightingale. The blackcap has neither the
fulness nor the force, but it has all and more of the former's purity.
This little hideling, with its timid obtrusiveness, never strays far
from cultivation. One provision it requires, and this is seclusion. Its
shy and retiring habits teach it to search out dense retreats, and it
is rarely seen. If observed on the confines of its corral of boughs it
immediately begins to perform a series of evolutions until it has
placed a dense screen of brushwood between itself and the observer.
Many times have we heard the round, full, lute-like plaintiveness of
the nightingale, sounds that seem to seize and ingrain themselves in
the very soul, that "make the wild blood start in its mystic springs."
To us the delicious triumph of the bird's song lies in its utter
_abandon_. The lute-like sweetness, the silvery liquidness, the
bubbling and running over, and the wild, gurgling "jug, jug, jug!" To
say this, and more--that the nightingale is a mad, sweet polyglot, that
it is the sweetest of English warblers, the essence and quintessence of
song, that it is the whole wild bird achievement in one--these are
feeble, feeble! This "light-winged dryad of the trees" is still "in
some melodious spot of beechen green and shadows numberless, singing of
summer in full-throated ease," and here she will remain. Unlike the
songs of some of our warblers, hers can never be reproduced. Attempt to
translate it, and it eludes you, only its meagre skeleton remains.
Isaac Walton, in his quaint eloquence, tries to say what he felt: "The
nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet, loud
music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind
to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight ... should hear,
as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural
rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might
well be lifted above earth, and say, 'Lord, what music hast Thou
provided for the saints in heaven, when Thou affordest bad men such
music on earth!'"
Although Britain can show no parallel either in number or brilliance to
the living lights of the tropics, we are not without several
interesting phosphorescent creatures of our own. Those whose business
leads them abroad in the fields and woods through the short summer
nights are often treated to quite remarkable luminous sights. Last
night the writer was lying on a towering limestone escarpment, waiting
to intercept a gang of poachers. The darkness was dead and unrelieved,
and a warm rain studded every grass blade with moisture. When the day
and sun broke, this would glow with a million brilliant prismatic
colours, then suddenly vanish. But the illumination came sooner, and in
a different way. The rain ceased, and hundreds of tiny living lights
lit up the sward. In the intense darkness these shone with an unusual
brilliancy, and lit up the almost impalpable moisture. Every foot of
ground was studded with its star-like gem, and these twinkled and shone
as the fireflies stirred in the grass. The sight was quite an
un-English one, and the soft green glow only paled at the coming of
day. One phase of this interesting phenomenon is that now we can have a
reproduction of it nightly. The fireflies were collected, turned down
on the lawn, and their hundred luminous lamps now shed a soft lustre
over all the green.
Why our British fireflies are designated "glow-worms" is difficult to
understand. _Lampyris noctiluca_ has nothing worm-like about it.
It is a true insect. The popular misconception has probably arisen in
this wise. The female glow-worm, the light-giver, is wingless; the male
is winged. The latter, however, has but little of the light emitting
power possessed by the female. Only the light-givers are collected, and
being destitute of the first attribute of an insect, wings, are set
down in popular parlance as worms. Old mossy banks, damp hedgerows, and
shaded woods are the loved haunts of the fireflies, and the warm nights
of the soft summer months most induce them to burn their soft lustre.
Some widowed worm or firefly flirt may shed her luminous self in the
darkness even on into dying summer or autumn. But this is unusual. It
is not definitely known what purpose is served by the emission of the
soft green light, but it has long been suspected that the lustre was to
attract the male. Gilbert White found that glow-worms were attracted by
the light of candles, and many of them came into his parlour. Another
naturalist by the same process captured as many as forty male
glow-worms in an evening. Still another suggestion is that the
phosphorescence serves for a protection or means of defence to the
creatures possessing it, and an incident which seems to support this
view has been actually witnessed. This was in the case of a carabeus
which was observed running round and round a phosphorescent centipede,
evidently wishing but not daring to attack it. A third explanation of
the phenomenon is that it serves to afford light for the creature to
see by. A somewhat curious confirmation of this is the fact that in the
insect genus to which our British fireflies belong, the
_Lampyridæ_, the degree of luminosity is exactly in inverse
proportion to the development of the vision.
Fireflies glow with greatest brilliancy at midnight. Their luminosity
is first seen soon after dark:
"The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire."
As the insects rest on the grass and moss, the difference in the amount
of light emitted is quite marked. While the luminous spot indicated by
a female is quite bright, the males show only as the palest fire. When
on the wing, the light of the latter is not seen at all. Heavy rain, so
long as it is warm, serves only to increase the brightness. The seat of
the light of the glow-worm is in the tail, and proceeds from three
luminous sacs in the last segment of the abdomen. The male has only two
of these, and the light proceeding from them is comparatively small.
During favourable weather the light glows steadily, but at other times
it is not constant. The fireflies of the tropics--those comprising the
genus _Lampyridæ_--vary to the extent that while certain species
control their light, others are without this power. The light of our
English glow-worm is undoubtedly under its control, as upon handling
the insect it is immediately put out. It would seem to take some little
muscular effort to produce the luminosity, as one was observed to move
continually the last segment of the body so long as it continued to
shine. The larvæ of the glow-worm is capable of emitting light, but not
to be compared to that of the developed insect. Both in its nature and
immature forms, _Lampyris noctiluca_ plays a useful part in the
economy of Nature. To the agriculturist and fruit-grower it is a
special friend. Its diet consists almost wholly of small shelled
snails, and it comes upon the scene just as these farm and garden pests
are most troublesome. British fireflies probably have never yet figured
as personal ornaments to female beauty. This is, and has always been,
one of their uses to the dusky daughters of the tropics. They are often
studded in the coiled and braided hair, and perform somewhat the same
office as diamonds for more civilised belles. Spanish ladies and those
of the West Indies enclose fireflies in bags of lace or gauze, and wear
them amid their hair or disposed about their persons. The luminosity of
our modest English insect is far outshone by several of its congeners.
Some of these are used in various ways for illumination, and it is said
that the brilliancy of the light is such that the smallest print can be
read by that proceeding from the thoracic spots alone, when a single
insect is moved along the lines. In the Spanish settlements, the
fireflies are frequently used in a curious way when travelling at
night. The natives tie an insect to each great toe; and on fishing and
hunting expeditions make torches of them by fastening several together.
The same people have a summer festival at which the garments of the
young people are covered with fireflies, and being mounted on fine
horses similarly ornamented, the latter gallop through the dusk, the
whole producing the effect of a large moving light.
Another phosphorescent little creature found commonly in Britain is a
centipede with the expressive name _Geophilus electricus_. This is
a tiny living light which shows its luminous qualities in a remarkable
and interesting fashion. It may not uncommonly be seen on field and
garden paths, and leaves a lovely train of phosphorescent fire as it
goes. This silvery train glows in the track of the insect, sometimes
extending to twenty inches in length. In addition to this, its
phosphorescence is exhibited by a row of luminous spots on each side
its body, and these points of pale fire present quite a pretty sight
when seen under favourable circumstances. It has been stated that the
light-giving quality of the fireflies might be designed to serve them
to see by; but this fails to apply to the little creature under notice,
as it is without eyes.
There are still other British insects which have the repute of being
phosphorescent, although the evidence is not yet quite satisfactory.
Among them are the male cricket and "daddy-longlegs," both of which are
reported to have been seen in a phosphorescent condition. But if there
is a dearth of phosphorescent land creatures which are native, this has
no application to the numerous luminous creatures living in our
Southern British seas. Among marine animals the phenomenon is more
general and much more splendid than anything which can be seen on land,
as witness the following picture by Professor Martin Duncan: Great
domes of pale gold, with long streamers, move slowly along in endless
procession; small silvery discs swim, now enlarging and now
contracting; and here and there a green or bluish gleam marks the
course of a tiny but rapidly rising and sinking globe. Hour after hour
the procession passes by, and the fishermen hauling in their nets, from
the midst drag out liquid light, and the soft sea jellies, crushed and
torn piecemeal, shine in every clinging particle. The night grows dark,
the wind rises and is cold, and the tide changes, so does the
luminosity of the sea. The pale spectres sink deeper and are lost to
sight, but the increasing waves are tinged here and there with green
and white, and often along a line, where the fresh water is mixing with
the salt in an estuary, there is brightness so intense that boats and
shores are visible. But if such sights are to be seen on the surface,
what must not be the phosphorescence of the depths! Every sea-pen is
glorious in its light; in fact, nearly every eight-armed alcyonarian is
thus resplendent, and the social pyrosoma, bulky and a free swimmer,
glows like a bar of hot metal with a white and green radiance.