162 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



lights play over the dark vault above us, or all 

 may be obscured in lowering, leaden clouds. But 

 the lights of the sea are never obscured — they 

 always shine with a splendour which keeps one 

 entranced for hours. 



At night the ripples and foam of the Fundy 

 shores seem transformed to molten silver and 

 gold, and after each receding wave the emerald 

 seaweed is left dripping with millions of spar- 

 kling lights, shining with a living lustre which 

 would pale the brightest gem. Each of these 

 countless sparks is a tiny animal, as perfect in its 

 substance and as well adapted to its cycle of life 

 as the highest created being. The wonderful way 

 in which this phosphorescence permeates every- 

 thing — the jelly-fish seeming elfish fireworks as 

 they throb through the water with rhythmic beats 

 — the fish brilliantly lighted up and plainly visible 

 as they dart about far beneath the surface — makes 

 such a night on the Bay of Fundy an experience 

 to be always remembered. 



Like the tints on a crescent sea beach 



When the moon is new and thin, 

 Into our hearts high yearnings 



Come welling and surging in — 

 Come, from the mystic ocean, 



Whose rim no foot has trod — 

 Some of us call it longing, 



And others call it God. 



W. H. Carruth. 



