H November fog si 



shadowy village yonder, and there we will let the rude 

 monuments to the unknown shipwrecked tell their 

 own sad tale. 



When, along the deserted beach, you have walked 

 northward less than half a mile from the village, you 

 cross a stream which emerges from among the grass- 

 patched dunes and the quiet fields beyond with a 

 hoarse, impetuous roar. You are imagining it to be 

 gliding over the broad stretch of sand in iridescent 

 undulations, to lose itself in the sea, when through the 

 fog there comes the weird screech of a siren sounded 

 from a steamship in the bay. 



Stare as you will in the direction of the sound, 

 there is nothing visible but the fog, which stares 

 blankly back at you. 



Just when your eyes are beginning to ache with this 

 gazing into white nothingness, the curtain slowly 

 rises, first on the wet beach, next on the distant wave- 

 lets that lazily lap the shore, and then on the bay 

 itself. The ship with the siren comes into view. You 

 can vaguely make her out a spectral ship upon a 

 spectral sea. 



The fog still lifts. An unreal-looking town is dis- 

 closed in the north-east ; a town, some do enviously 

 say, of ancient and fish-like smell ; one with the tall 

 tower of a venerable church named St. Hilda's as a 

 bold landmark among clustering roofs ; a town for 

 ever dear to me ; my native town, in fact. 



To the southward, the looming heights of the North 

 Yorkshire coast reveal themselves. Then the orange 

 rays of the tardy sun shoot the little village and the 

 glistening beach, and a fine November day lightens 

 over land and sea. 



