NONSUCH 



had called a circle. I checked up another very- 

 special event which made life on Earth supremely- 

 satisfying; I thanked my subconscious ears very 

 heartily. They saluted, looked rather superiorly at 

 my Pseudoscopelus, and went back to their listen- 

 ing post. 



Now and then, looking southward from Nonsuch, 

 we see incoming steamers headed our way, passing 

 along close beyond the outer reefs. The telescope 

 shows strange flags, alien names, and sometimes, 

 when it is very clear, foreign folk peering over the 

 rails. The next day we see in St. Georges swarthy 

 South American faces and listen to liquid, neo- 

 tropical, Latin exclamations. Another day and all 

 are gone again. 



Early in my occupancy of Nonsuch I wandered 

 down to South Beach. Out among the stranded 

 sargassum weed I saw a movement and a second 

 glance showed a trim little figure running among 

 the piled fronds, now and then hesitating to snatch 

 at some morsel, but forever teetering. My glasses 

 revealed an old friend in a new dress — a spotless 

 spotted sandpiper. His breast was swept clear of all 

 pattern, his winter waistcoat was immaculate. And 

 the next day, like the migrant South Americans 

 from the ships, he too was gone. 



The job I had set myself on my new island home 

 was the study of the fish of the deep sea and the 

 shore, but I would choose any day to be a poor 

 naturalist than a good ultra-specialist. So forthwith, 



126 



