THE wind's will 



137 



light reel and toss the white riders of the 

 storm. Onward they come. Swash ! Boooooom ! 

 Sssssss-ss ! And the great cauldron under the 

 cliff having flung forth its spume, halts, hesi- 

 tates, sinks back upon itself, sucks out in a 

 great undertow, then rises into a new crest 

 higher than ever. Waaarrr! Ssss-ssssss! 

 Weeeeeooooohhh ! 



All night long the pound against the cliffs 

 and the tremble of the shore! All night the 

 whistle of the spray-laden wind as it drives 

 through the branches of the pines! All night 

 the curl and flash of the white crests on 

 the open sea ! By morning perhaps the wind 

 has fallen, the clouds have vanished, the sun 

 is forth ; and yet for many hours afterward the 

 far ocean waves keep swashing against each 

 other and collapsing in swirls of foam. Finally 

 the sea runs down, the breakers sink; and at 

 sunset as you walk along the beach all is quiet. 

 It is hard to realize perhaps that the now 

 smooth sea with its placid little swells could 

 ever have worn such a savage front. But the 

 traces of its fury still remain. The dunes are 

 cut through by inlets here and piled high with 

 wet sand there, the beaches are ripped and torn, 

 the bowlders are rolled over, scarred and bat- 

 tered; and the face-walls of the cliffs show 



Lighthouse 

 arid bell- 

 buoy. 



The pound 

 of waves. 



The sub- 

 Si iience. 



