34 " IN THE HARD GREY WEATHER.'' 



and toss on the very verge of the horizon. 

 Wooden breakwaters had been erected along the 

 sands, but in a few years the gnawing " white- 

 toothed waves," as they are termed in an Irish 

 poem, had eaten up the greater part of these de- 

 fences, and they now attest the inefficient charac- 

 ter of the engineering scheme under which they 

 were constructed. It is a wonder that the pea- 

 santry who reside in this neighbourhood do not 

 become duck-footed, like Nicholas the Diver. 

 They spend a considerable portion of their 

 dull uninteresting lives apparently raking in the 

 weed used to manure the unkind soil which 

 is with difficulty kept from relapsing into pri- 

 mitive barrenness. They collect cockles on 

 the rocks when the tide is out, and the women 

 gather an unpleasant slimy stuff not unknown 

 in London as laver. This mess is much re- 

 lished on the spot with potatoes and sprats. 

 As the fowler tramps through the sand he 

 meets scores of men and women dragging from 

 the reluctant sea the weeds cast up by the 

 previous night's storm. They pursue their 

 work in silence, in a moody, listless manner, 

 and one of the operators employs a " rake " 



