52 WEST COAST SHELLS 



surf; nearer, a line of these black- feathered creatures 

 darts noiselessly by, just over the surface of the 

 water, reminding one of the motions of the fabled 

 sea-serpent. On this side are transparent tide-pools 

 with their living inhabitants; crabs, sea-stars, little 

 fishes, gay sea-urchins, and a host of minor creatures, 

 all intent on getting their breakfasts and then set- 

 tling down for the day's work. Over there are 

 rocks, covered with olive-green seaweeds, which for 

 all the world are almost the same that we find pre- 

 served in sandstones, a million years old. 



But from all this assemblage of beauty, made 

 more enjoyable by the soft murmur of the waves 

 and the sweet breath of the morning air, we turn 

 back to the little beaches that have been left bare by 

 the retreating tide, and gleefully search for treasures 

 that may have been left by the truant waters. 

 Treasures indeed are all about us, though choice 

 shells may be wholly absent. The white sand is 

 here, inexpressibly sweet and clean, and multitudes 

 of fragments are mingled with it, fragments of bright 

 shells, white, red, purple and blue. 



There are grains of pearl, broken but beautiful; 

 pieces of limpet-shells, turban-shells, mussel-shells 

 and bright abalones; white crystals of feldspar from 

 the granite rocks, bits of green glass, worn smooth 

 from broken bottles; clear quartz sand-grains and 

 many other things, all ground up together in the 

 great mill of the sea. Every handful of the sand 

 contains something of interest, and every quart is 

 liable to reveal some rare shell, beautifully cleaned 

 and ready for the cabinet. 



