THE WONDERS OF THE SHORE. 173 
red mainsails of the skiffs hung motionless, and their 
images quivered head downwards in the glassy swell, 
‘“As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean.” 
It was neap-tide, too, and therefore nothing could 
be done among the rocks. So, in despair, finding an 
old coast-guard friend starting for his lobster-pots, I 
determined to save the old man’s arms, by rowing 
him up the shore; and then paddled homeward 
again, under the high green northern wall, five hun- 
dred feet of cliff furred to the water’s edge with rich 
oak woods, against whose base the smooth Atlantic 
swell died whispering, as if curling itself up to sleep 
at last within that sheltered nook, tired with its 
weary wanderings. The sun sank lower and lower 
behind the deer-park point; the white stair of houses 
up the glen was wrapped every moment deeper and 
deeper in hazy smoke and shade, as the light faded; 
the evening fires were lighted one by one; the soft 
murmur of the waterfall, and the pleasant laugh of - 
children, and the splash of homeward oars, came 
clearer and clearer to the ear at every stroke: and as 
