When the Wind bloweth in from the Sea. 171 



which there leap every now and then white sheets - of 

 spray. 



And all across the restless water, grey on the sea- 

 line, blue in the nearer distance, then pale green, with 

 bands of purple over beds of weed, ' The wild white 

 horses foam and fret.' 



As the tide goes down, the narrow strip of hard, 

 bright sand that fringes the bay and wanders among 

 the outlying piles of rock, is strewn with spoils from 

 the dark forests of the sea — strong, pliant stems of 

 kelp with waving fronds of deep olive, their twisted 

 roots still wrapped close about the sea-worn stones 

 they have brought up from their lost moorings, bright 

 ocean weeds of green and crimson, lying like patches 

 of vivid colour among the pebbles. 



Here, a score of painted shells have been stranded 

 in a crevice, and not yet beaten into fragments on the 

 stones. 



There, has floated in the broad white ' bone ' of a 

 cuttle-fish, its fragile shape hardly injured by its stormy 

 voyage. A few holes in its underside show where 

 some sea-bird has made trial of its soft substance and 

 left it, disgusted at its dryness. 



A couple of turnstones, smart little birds in brown, 

 with bright red legs and beak, are busy on a heap of 

 kelp over some treasure-trove that the sea has left for 

 them. 



Very pretty they look against the dark background 

 of the weed, but perhaps even prettier is the rich violet 



