IV 



AT LOW TIDE 183 



it some of the waste greatness, as well as the wild- 

 ness of the gale. Down at the bottom — far off it 

 seems now — the shoal water of low tide froths, 

 tosses, and cries upon the sand. 



There the beachcombers go, not as if they 

 wanted to find something, but as if they were 

 minded to take a stroll by the waves, for their 

 health's sake or to meditate. They foot it featly 

 by the sea's margin — 



Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 

 When he comes back. 



Demy-puppets they look, down there; small, 

 remote, not altogether real, in the misty spray that 

 blows off the sea, and against the sea's grandeur. 

 With philosophic gait one walks along; not 

 stooping much (because he's subject to lumbago) 

 but peering steadfastly, and occasionally turning 

 over a stone with his boot, or scratching with his 

 toes like an old hen. Another ventures too far 

 after treasure, tucks up his legs beneath him, and 

 jumps askew, lest a wave fill his only pair of boots. 

 Another might be gleaning, his back is so bent 

 and he picks up so much of no worth. Boys run 

 into the water, rejoicing in wet feet. 'Whatever 

 are they doing down there?' asks the stranger. 

 'Has anybody lost anything?' 



