216 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



little spats, scattered broadcast over the flat, bur- 

 row with the first tide into the sand, where with 

 each returning tide they open their mouths, like 

 young birds, for their meal of diatoms brought 

 in by the never-failing sea. Thus they feed twice 

 a day, with never too much water, with never a 

 fear of drouth, until they are grown fat for the 

 clammer's basket. 



If, heretofore, John Burroughs among the un- 

 certainties of his vineyard could sing, — 

 Serene, I fold my hands and wait, — 



surely now the clammer in his cottage by the sea 

 can sing, and all of us with him, — 



The stars come nightly to the sky; 



The tidal wave comes to the sea ; 

 Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 



Can keep my own away from me. 



