THE WIND S TVILL 



139 



together in an odd confusion. And as one wan- 

 ders along the sands the eye picks out things 

 more personal to humanity — a glove, a wom- 

 an's hat, a faded photograph, a wreath of 

 orange blossoms, a Japanese book printed on 

 rice paper and on the fly-leaf in faded script 

 a name, " Therese Marcou." Tales of the sea 

 too simple for comment, perhaps. Yes, and 

 with them, sometimes, horrors too obvious to 

 be mistaken. A few years ago on the. New 

 Jersey coast the waves washed up a French kid 

 boot — a woman's boot buttoned tightly — and 

 within it a foot cut off at the top of the 

 leather as though by the clean blow of an axe. 

 A deed of violence! Yes; but the sea has 

 witnessed many of them. To-day a battleship 

 goes down and from her a thousand bubbling 

 cries rise skyward; yesterday the sea waters 

 crept into the heart of Mont Pelee and the over- 

 whelming of St. Pierre followed; to-morrow 

 perhaps some South Sea island or Indian shore 

 will be inundated by a tidal wave and whole 

 villages destroyed. But what cares the sea ! 

 The bright waves continue to travel landward, 

 they fling the broken remnants on the shore, 

 the very dust of disaster is shaken from the 

 surface. The passing of light, of shade, of 

 color, of life, are all one to the sea. 



A sea 

 horror 



Tragefliet 

 of the sea. 



