ALONG THE BEACH 127 



for in the little cove in the southern cor- 

 ner of Oyster Pond stood a winter yellow- 

 leg almost up to his feathers in water. 



This autumnal expectation and chance 

 of meeting new bird friends drove away 

 the monotony of the long chain of ponds 

 and great curve of beach and undulating 

 dunes. 



The afternoon was well on when we 

 rounded Homer Pond, having passed 

 Watcha and its many tributaries and 

 headed inland across a waste of marsh 

 toward a little red shooting hut near the 

 head of Long Cove. We found the camp 

 and its contents exactly as our herculean 

 driver of the morning had described it, and 

 after a meagre supper we stretched our- 

 selves full length upon the grass on a little 

 hill back of the hut and watched the sun- 

 set to the distant drum music of the 

 breaking waves. 



Those two cool hours stretched on the 

 grass v/ere restful to mind and body after 

 our long trudge over the hot sand and 

 mosquito and gnat inhabited marsh. I 

 drank in the plaintive whistle of a lone 

 meadow lark up in the field, and the 

 continuous undertone of grasshopper spar- 



