stretch of tumultuous sea, of billowy 

 ridges, of emerald green waves rolling 

 in full force and extending on and on 

 to the remote horizon. Gazing upon it, 

 and then up to the clear blue sky above, 

 one's soul is filled with fond, gentle feel- 

 ings, and one's heart swells with grati- 

 tude to the great Author of all beauty. 

 The eye delightedly watches with spell- 

 bound fascination the sparkle and mar- 

 velous grace of motion, the swing and 

 swirl of the glittering green and white 

 breakers which are continually foaming, 

 roaring and thundering upon the beach. 

 They are surpassingly lovely, a specimen 

 of the splendor of water at its finest. As 

 we watch the grand spectacle of the tre- 

 mendous mass of waves rushing with 

 eager impetuosity, turning over in fault- 

 less curves, they look like a mighty army 

 come to conquer the world, and we try 

 to imagine for how many centuries they 

 have been dashing with never ending 

 fury against the beach. 



The line of the first breaker can be 



discerned dreamily lapping the sands, 

 spreading a sheet of curling, creamy 

 wavelets glimmering with rain-bow tints, 

 away up the beach. 



The breaker following comes frothing 

 along amid loud clamor and tumult, and 

 with a long snowy plunge, hurls itself 

 upon the beach into a mist of brilliant 

 tiny waves. 



But the third breaker is superbly 

 grand. With what solemnity of motion 

 that towering wave comes sweeping in. 

 There it is, piled up high like a huge 

 massive wall. Ah ! out of yon green 

 mass, a streak of silver-crested foam 

 darts forth. Suddenly it leaps forward, 

 rolling higher as it rolls nearer as if 

 stimulated by some hidden spell ; then 

 over it tumbles, falling with a long roar 

 which reverberates with an angry howl 

 all along the sands, and a wild chaos of 

 eager, dancing, foaming, tossing, racing, 

 heaving, white billows, rush with frantic 

 haste and violence, hither and thither, 

 round and round in unspeakable confu- 

 sion. Clara Hill. 



revisited. 



Pink with the pale erigeron's bloom 

 I saw the old home mead in June ; 

 And buttercups of brightest gold 

 Starred all the hollows as of old! 



The cockspur thorn its clusters hung 

 As purely white where thrushes sung; 

 The splendid hickories towered still 

 Beneath the shadows of the hill. 



On mossy seat I sat me down 



And, dreaming, viewed the distant town — 



A tortoise waddling slowly by 



At length recalled my wand'ring eye, 



And woke sweet mem'ries of the days 

 When Eden pure, seemed woodland ways, 

 And all these scenes, with tenants shy, — 

 Vale, hill and mount, brook, marsh and sky — 

 With home, — the central picture fair, — 

 Were mine, and I without a care ! 



— George Bancroft Griffith. 



