Summer 57 



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From the south end of Seaton Carew to the North 

 Gare Breakwater, at the mouth of the river Tees, 

 there runs an irregular rampart of low sandhills, ter- 

 minating inshore in a sloping, rich carpet of fine grass. 

 At the village end of the dunes seats are placed, on one 

 of which I rest this early summer afternoon. The 

 breeze comes laden with the scent of the sea and of 

 the white clover that spreads itself between me and 

 the beach. There are wisps of wind-blown vapour in the 

 gentian-blue sky overhead. Gossamer cloudlets re- 

 pose behind a diaphanous curtain of pearly haze out 

 towards the sea's rim. A lark trills an appreciative 

 song not far away. The droning of a bee is wafted 

 from the clover. It is indeed an inspiriting afternoon, 

 when one feels to the full the joyousness of life. 



Out in the bay the fishing-boats are dancing among 

 the " white horses " without regard to measure. 

 From Hartlepool there emerges a tug with a string of 

 small craft, which it rapidly tows through the bay. 

 The vessels curtsey to the dancing fishing-boats as 

 they go, and when they arrive off the Heugh they 

 spread their sails to the favouring breeze and skim 

 away seaward. 



Down the Tees a perky little steamer comes. Her 

 jib is so full of wind that I expect every moment to 

 hear it split with the report of a big gun. Just past 

 the Fairway Buoy she turns her head southward and 

 soon disappears in a contemptuous cloud of smoke 

 which somehow strikes me as being a very natural 

 thing for her to do. 



But the breeze is not long in removing this foul blot 

 on the sea and sky. Then another fleet of fishing- 



