Patrolling the Beach, 



Pacific Coast as far north as Alaska, is 

 another frequent victim of the storms. 

 The gulls, too, with all their ease and 

 grace upon the wing, share a like fate, 

 and I find on my list of storm victims 

 a number of species which have been 

 washed ashore. 



Having walked the length of the 

 exposed beach we turn our faces home- 

 ward, and are almost lifted along on our 

 way by the favoring wind. All about 

 is desolation — the gray sky, the leaden 

 water, the shining white rollers and the 

 dreary sand, with only the roar and 

 boom of the breakers sounding their 

 endless moan. A few drops of water 

 on our faces give warning that the 

 storm is not over, and we quicken our 

 pace toward the station. The Seal 

 Rocks stand out black against their 

 frame of crashing surf The curtain 

 of mist closes down closer about us. 

 Our tramp on the beach is at an end, 

 and already the incoming tide has 

 washed away our footprints from the 

 6i 



