BATTLEFIELD OF THE SHORE 



these haunts; if I looked intently at the sun I 

 should be blinded, if I exposed my skin unwisely, 

 the result would be an intolerable burn. Yet there 

 were delicate adaptations for assurance of safety, 

 such as the protective ochraceous tawny (by Ridge- 

 way's Color Key ! ) of my skin at present. 



I reached the last of the stunted cedars and 

 walked among weeds — goldenrod and sea-laven- 

 der. Then I came to the end of the soil and the be- 

 ginning of the naked rocks. The most casual on- 

 looker could tell that I was getting beyond my 

 natural environment, for I had to desert the upright 

 bipedal locomotion of a Lord of Creation and clam- 

 ber down on all fours. I had already passed beyond 

 the permanent home of any true terrestrial animal, 

 but here and there in sheltered hollows, where a 

 handful of soil and debris had lodged, sturdy little 

 sea-oxeyes fought for enough rain and sun to coun- 

 teract the choking brine. Two feet below and to 

 the left of the last of these green pioneers appeared 

 a tiny basin of water. It was slimy and exceedingly 

 hot, and a few drops on my tongue indicated a 

 saturated salt solution. At times of storm or any 

 high surf, such as five days ago, this cup was re- 

 plenished by flying drops, and between storms 

 slowly evaporated. It was^ lined with a dense, 

 yellow-green nap of algae — as true seaweed as 

 the sargassum a thousand miles from shore. I let 

 myself down and stood with one hand on the silvery 

 green foliage of the ox-eye, cousin of thistles, daisies, 

 and goldenrod, and with my other I plucked tufts 



79 



