The Wintry Shore. 



197 



shadowy canopy. The air grows chill and damp. The 

 touches of gold melt away from the shining sea-wrack. 

 The warm tones fade from the rich brown boulders, 

 the silver settings from the glistening pebbles. The 

 troops of waders, far out along the falling tide, grow 

 indistinct and disappear. The plovers, as they run 

 across the sand, vanish in the mist. The plaintive call 

 of the curlew, the musical trill of the oyster-catcher, 

 the melancholy voices of the gulls float faintly over the 

 shingle, awesome and mysterious, like phantom voices 

 in a shadow land, 



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