ON THE SANDS OF IPSWICH 23 



gray Atlantic, while between us and the 

 dunes stretched a broad salt marsh, dotted 

 with duck blinds, to the sea. 



The white tower of Ipswich Light rose 

 from among the sandhills, and beyond 

 Bug Light stood on the crest of a dune. 

 Our journey ended at a quaint old house 

 on the shores of the Essex River, sur- 

 rounded on all sides by the shifting sands. 

 Having deposited our luggage in a room 

 whose floor shelved in every direction 

 possible, though anything even or level 

 here would have looked strange and un- 

 natural, we started for the beach beyond 

 the dunes. Herring gulls crowded the 

 uncovered bars by the hundreds, and now 

 and then a few ducks would fly low over 

 the water, passing from one feeding ground 

 to another. 



The bare ribs of a wreck protruded from 

 the shore, the keel having long ago been 

 buried by the encroaching sands. Large 

 flocks of snow buntings hopped over the 

 seaweed or sat muffled up on the drift- 

 wood, and when startled would fly farther 

 down the beach, uttering a chorus of 

 short, sharp notes. Shore larks also were 

 numerous here, running around tufts of 



