Io8 THE CALL OF THE SEA 



are cut through l)y inlets here and piled high with 

 wet sand there, the beaches are ripped and torn, 

 the boulders are rolled over, scarred and battered ; 

 and the face-walls of the cliffs show where tons 

 and tons of stone have been broken away and 

 fallen into the sea. 



Perhaps far out upon the distant reef, where the 

 white caps are still showing, hung helplessly upon 

 the sharp-fanged rocks, heeled over on her side 

 with masts and rigging all down, is the battered 

 hulk of a schooner that was driven in by the wind 

 the night before. The little black speck that moves 

 slowly about her fore-foot is possibly a boat of 

 a life-saving crew that was unable to save during 

 the storm, and is now only making a perfunctory 

 examination of what remains. Perhaps again the 

 little knot of fisherfolk that is seen crowded to- 

 gether far down the beach has found at the water's 

 edge, half buried in the sand, a cold form with 

 a frayed rope shirred about the waist, purplish 

 hands with torn finger nails^ and a white face with 

 wet hair clinging about it as the tide went out. 

 Dead, quite dead ! Yes ; but what cares the sea ! 

 Captain or cabin boy, prince or pauper, lover or 



hater, what cares the sea ! 



/. C. Van Dyke. 



