At the Water’s Edge 
The plover has an odd habit of frequently 
bobbing his head, as if ina state of chronic 
obeisance, or else of permanent acquiescence ; 
and makes the observer feel that, although a 
very silent creature, he is nevertheless doing a 
great deal of hard thinking—as if continually 
giving outward assent to his private conclusions. 
Keeping as close to the water’s edge as possi- 
ble, when a larger wave than usual rolled in, he 
would instantly wheel about, and then how his 
long, slender, bright-red legs would twinkle 
away, six inches in advance of the shallow ripple 
that chased him fast and far over the level sands. 
Gliding in this manner across the glassy floor 
that gave back a perfect inverted image of his 
delicate figure, and even of his wiry limbs, keep- 
ing time and step to his own retreat—this dis- 
solving view was far more picturesque than any 
scene of warblers or thrushes. And then, when 
the wave reached its limit, how quickly he faced 
about, and ducked his head to the great deep, 
as if to say, ‘* I salute you, hoary monster ! you 
didn’t catch me ¢hafttime, did you?’’ The si- 
lent, delicate plover, and the noisy, stupendous 
ocean, thus brought face to face, as in battle 
array, form the most delicious and suggestive 
combination of minuteness and immensity that I 
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