50 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



kept gazing out into the distance, and wonder- 

 ing whether some dim sail would not appear in 

 the gloom, or some rock rise from among the 

 billows for our boat to break itself against. 



As we glided on our undulating path across 

 the restless water, the dark mass of Cape Smoky 

 attended us on our right like a shadow. The 

 waves splashed incessantly upon the broken 

 rocks at the foot of the cliffs, and sometimes in 

 the hollow of a wave not far from us a jagged 

 mass of rock flashed menacingly for a moment 

 before the water slid over it again and hid its 

 threat from our eyes. The hand of time falls 

 heavily upon the red sandstone, and every year 

 huge pieces of rock drop into the sea and be- 

 come the sport of the tide. At one point a but- 

 tress of rock protruded into the bay, and through 

 it I could see light. The busy waves and frosts 

 had carved an arch in the stone, through which 

 birds could fly and storm winds blow. Far up 

 the cliff a brook, which had worked patiently 

 downward from the soil on the summit of the 

 mountain, appeared in a circular opening, and 

 dashed its small spray seaward. Most brooks 

 must fight their way over boulders and fallen 

 trees, through dark ravines, by hot waysides and 

 sleepy meadows, at last to win only a right to 

 merge their lives in the greater life of the river. 

 This brook had gone straight to its mother ocean. 



