FOOTPRINTS ON THE SAND. 



T N the evening of the year, when in the woodland 

 walk we miss the feathered wanderers who, in the 

 silence of these moonlight nights, are returning to their 

 winter haunts ; when no longer round our gables floats 

 the graceful figure of the swallow ; when the twitter of 

 the martins sounds no more from their nests beneath 

 the eaves, there reappear along the sea those familiar 

 forms whose presence lends such an added charm to 

 the beauty of the shore. 



The sea is to all men ever a delight. There are 

 none who do not love its musical rhythm, its moods of 

 storm and calm, the wonder of its rest, the terror of its 

 rage. 



Greater still is the charm which the lover of nature 

 finds at every step along its shores. He loves the 

 weeds, of bright hue and delicate form, which the 

 waters have torn up from quiet depths and heaped 

 among the shingle ; the strange creatures stranded by 

 the tide ; the myriad shells that ocean strews along 



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