THE SEA IN A SNOWSTORM. 23 



summer crowd had been blown away by the 

 winter's breath. Only a flock of a dozen crows 

 lent life to the arena. 



A train emerged from the storm. I could see 

 its dark outlines ; its torn column of steam ; 

 the swift motion of its many wheels, then it 

 was gone, engulfed in the dizzy vibration of the 

 snow, its voice unheard amid the greater voices 

 of the sky and sea. The tide was going down 

 as I started towards home on the hard shining 

 sand of Crescent Beach. I think at least two 

 hundred herring-gulls passed by me, flying 

 slowly against the gale and keeping over the 

 water, but parallel to the beach and about a 

 hundred yards from it. They were silent. 

 Their strong wings beat against the storm. 

 Now and then one plunged into the foam of a 

 breaking wave, or glided for a second along the 

 trough of the sea. They did not seem like 

 true birds, beings of the same race as humming- 

 birds, sweet - voiced thrushes, . or keen - witted 

 chickadees. They were rather creations of the 

 salt waves and ocean tempests ; cold-blooded, 

 scaly things, incapable of those loves and fears, 

 songs and quaint nesting ways of the birds of 

 field and forest. Near Oak Island a flock of 

 four snow buntings, which had been feeding 

 among the bunches of seaweed, rose at my ap- 

 proach and flew toward and past me up the 



