124 



ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



few Katama farms, taking down and put- 

 ting up fence bars at frequent intervals, we 

 reached the shore of Herring Pond. There 

 we unhmbered our truck, and, saying fare- 

 well to our driver and the freshly mown 

 fields of hay, teaming with grackles and 

 red-wing blackbirds we crossed a salt 

 marsh to the beach dunes, which lay be- 

 tween the chain of brackish ponds that 

 back the beach and the ocean. 



Two night heron and a kingfisher 

 sprang from the pond's edge as we started 

 along the sandy beach. 

 We could not see the 

 surf that broke with 

 a dull roar just over 

 the beachgrass-covered 

 dunes, but now and 

 then a cut in the sand- 

 hills would give a 

 glimpse of the wide-stretching waters of 

 the Atlantic with a coasting schooner or 

 two far out on its waters. How very 

 small and insignificant one feels standing 

 before such a waste of waters, symbolic of 

 such unbounded power ! Yonder wreck 

 raises but a few gaunt ribs to speak of a 

 vain battle against the waves. 



