40 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



Looking inland, I saw the hills marshaled along 

 the river, rank behind rank, with their relative 

 distances clearly defined by the smoke. The 

 mercury was above 90 Fahrenheit, and moun- 

 tain climbing was not to be thought of. Middle 

 Head, seen across the waves, suggested cool 

 breezes, and towards its lean, half -grassy, half- 

 rocky finger, pointing ever eastward, we took 

 our way. From Mr. Baker's, half a mile of 

 sandy road runs northward parallel with an 

 ideally beautiful beach. Then the road bends 

 to the left, inland, while the beach curves to the 

 right, seaward, rising soon into sandy banks, 

 which in turn change to sculptured cliffs at 

 whose foot the sea murmurs. 



Terns with black-tipped wings skimmed close 

 to the restless waves, and over the fretted sand 

 where the ripples had left the marks of their 

 lips. No one walked upon the road where man 

 had scratched together badly the same sand 

 which nature had made perfect by the tides. 



When I looked at Ingonish beach as it was, 

 silent, lonely, serene, and pure, I thought what 

 it might some day be made if fashionable men 

 and women, on pleasure bent, chanced to dis- 

 cover it and to feel the thrill of its sun-tempered 

 tide, which is as mild as that of their favorite 

 but more southern shores. Now, at least, the 

 absence of hotels where such men and women 



