156 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



rushed up and snatched them both into the sea, 

 and they were drowned. In a few days the body 

 of one was cast up, but the other was never seen 

 again. Such fawning, such treachery, are in the 

 waves. 



The sea shifts its pillow like an uneasy sleeper. 

 The contour of the beach is seldom two days alike; 

 that round, smooth bolster of sand is at times very 

 prominent. The waves stroke and caress it, and 

 slide their delicate sea-draperies over it, as if they 

 were indeed making their bed. When you walk 

 there again it is gone, carried down under the 

 waves, and the beach is low and naked. 



Both the sight and the sound of the waves fill 

 the mind with images. One thinks of rockets, 

 windrows, embroideries. How they lift themselves 

 up and grow tall as they approach the shore! They 

 are entering shallower water, they are running 

 aground, and they rise up like vessels. 



I saw little in the waves that suggested steeds, 

 but more that reminded of huge sheep. At times 

 they would come wallowing ashore precisely like a 

 great flock or mob of woolly-headed sheep; the 

 wave breaks far out, and then comes that rushing 

 line of tossing, leaping woolly heads and shoulders, 

 diminishing as it comes, and leaving the space be- 

 hind it strewn with foam. Sometimes the waves 

 look like revolving cylindrical knives, carving the 

 coast. Then they thrust up their thin, crescent- 

 shaped edges, like reapers, reaping only shells and 

 sand; yet one seems to hear the hiss of a great 



