no Idylls of the Field. 



The lightest air from the east makes landing diffi- 

 cult, and now there is a heavy surf along the shore. 

 But by choosing the right moment, and taking advan- 

 tage of the shelter of a great rock, the boat is run 

 upon the shingle, and we are safe ashore. 



The men push off their little craft again and pull 

 back to the steamer. The boat is hauled up, the 

 paddles churn the sea into a flood of foam, the skipper 

 waves a last salute, and we are left upon the empty 

 shore. 



There is no sign of life anywhere. Two ancient 

 boats that may have drifted over from the mainland, 

 spars of old ships, and sea-worn timbers high and dry 

 above the tide-mark, might have lain here for ages. 



As we pause a minute on the shingle, the solitude 

 and silence are enough to call up memories of 

 marooned sea-captains, of long lonely vigil upon sea- 

 girt rocks. 



Over the wide sea is silence — no sail, no cry of 

 bird, no flash of wing. No stir of life along the shore 

 save the dark figure of a drifting cormorant, no sound 

 save the hoarse note of a raven watching from the 

 cliff, and the rhythmic beat of surf along the strand. 



On a bold rock, standing like a sentry on the height 

 above, a pile of granite, lichen-draped, brightened 

 with sea-pink and green tongues of fern, a buzzard 

 rests. So still is he, he seems but part of the stone 

 on which he stands. 



A herring gull, on broad wings sailing by, catches 



