78 <$j4{MBLES OF A VOtMINIB 



save these grave-mounds of old heroes, those lichened 

 stones that stand upon the heath, mute witnesses of 

 long forgotten rites. Along the shining strand the 

 wind has heaped a fringe of foam. Far into the dark 

 water stretches out a tongue of land dense with a jungle 

 of tall reeds and dwindling to a point of wave-worn 

 stones. A party of gulls is sailing idly down the shore. 

 A troop of widgeon, flying in long line up and down the 

 water, alight at last among the pebbles, disturbing for 

 the moment a little group of plovers that rise into the 

 air with plaintive notes. They settle down again at 

 length and are lost to view among the stones. Now a 

 cormorant, spreading his great wings to dry, startled by 

 some fancied danger, leaves his rock and splashes far 

 along the dark blue water before rising on the wing. 

 And at the sound there rise as if by magic from the 

 green jungle on the shore a score of tall grey necks, and 

 you are ware of a troop of herons standing motionless in 

 the reeds, watching the dwindling figure of the toiler of 

 the sea. A moment more and they are satisfied. It 

 was a false alarm. As sudden as they rose, the crested 

 heads sink down and vanish in the reeds. But again 

 some restless curlew sounds a warning call. In a 

 moment the great herons rise all together from their 

 covert, and gradually falling into line they drift away 

 over the moor. Ducks and plovers, gulls and curlews, 

 are scattered down the shore. Their figures fade, their 

 cries grow fainter in the distance. There is no sound 

 but stir of restless sea- wind in the heath ; no movement 

 but of waves and flying foam. Sea birds drifting over, 



