MANGROVE-HEN. 365 



there. All this is a pleasant mixture of repose 

 and activity ; of the stir from sleeping to waking ; 

 in which nature is never seen to such advantage, 

 as in the magnitude of a view that mingles the 

 ocean with the earth. 



" The day is gathering brighter and brighter ; 

 but the mountains rise between me and the sun, 

 and are one dull blue mass, neither deeply nor 

 faintly blue, but clear, and yet obscure. On the 

 beach the fishermen are silently hauling their seine, 

 sweeping, with its line of dotted corks, such a circuit 

 on the waters, that it seems to take in half the 

 bay. At a distance off, the flats loaded with grass 

 are getting under weigh. Busy men and women 

 are on the beach launching canoes and preparing 

 for the market. The sails are hoisted, and the 

 masses, that lay like logs upon the water, just 

 stir, and glide out into the glaring bay. Amid 

 all this hushed movement, there is one pervading 

 sound, the murmurs of the distant breakers. This 

 voice is seldom silent ; in the stillest lull there will 



be heard this roll of the restless surge. There is 



a sweet melancholy voice that comes from the bor- 

 dering mangroves along the river : it is the morn- 

 ing call of the Pea-dove. It is responded to by 

 a faint low cooing from the hill-side woods. It 

 is repeated again and again ; and again it is replied 

 to far away. And now there are other sounds. 

 The Crotophagas are trooping to the river-shal- 

 lows, and calling to each other to settle among 

 the sedges, where the receding tide has left them 

 living food. There is a sound overhead like the 



