32 A NATURE WOOING. 



sea was there. No odor of salt water, no sign of sea- 

 weed greets me. The beach is a hard, unbroken mass 

 of reddish yellow sand, with only here and there the 

 valve of a sea shell or the body of a giant sea squid 

 to break its monotony. Not a pebble, not a sign of 

 fish, not a rock for the waves to dash upon ; how dif- 

 ferent from the beach of the same ocean along New 

 England's rock-bound coast! 



The ever-present fish hawks, Pandion hcdicetus L., 

 great, unwieldy bodied birds, fly in pairs, close down 

 to the incoming surf, seeking with eagle eye a supper 

 in its depths. Flocks of a curious little "shore 

 walker" or sand piper follow in a peculiar running 

 gait every retreating wave; then turn about and re- 

 treat as rapidly before each advancing one. 



A solitary steamer of small size, southward bound, 

 about half a mile from shore, is the only vessel in 

 sight. After an hour the whole scene becomes mo- 

 notonous in the extreme and, on account of the sharp 

 wind which catches up and carries outward clouds of 

 sand from the inner edge of the beach, very disagree- 

 able. 



March 7, 1899. This morning the mercury marks 

 the freezing point, and the same wind, cold and dis- 

 agreeable, blows from the northwest. I wear an 

 overcoat to breakfast, and at nine o'clock don it again 

 and start forth in search of insects. In a deserted 

 orange grove, where the dead, thorny snags of former 

 prosperous growing trees are sad evidence of the 



