At the Water's Edge 



The plover has an odd habit of frequently 

 bobbing his head, as if in a state of chronic 

 obeisance, or else of permanent acquiescence; 

 and makes the observer feel that, although a 

 very silent creature, he is nevertheless doing a 

 great deal of hard thinking — as if continually 

 giving outward assent to his private conclusions. 

 Keeping as close to the water's edge as possi- 

 ble, when a larger wave than usual rolled in, he 

 would instantly wheel about, and then how his 

 long, slender, bright-red legs would twinkle 

 away, six inches in advance of the shallow ripple 

 that chased him fast and far over the level sands. 

 Gliding in this manner across the glassy floor 

 that gave back a perfect inverted image of his 

 delicate figure, and even of his wiry limbs, keep- 

 ing time and step to his own retreat — this dis- 

 solving view was far more picturesque than any 

 scene of warblers or thrushes. And then, when 

 the wave reached its limit, how quickly he faced 

 about, and ducked his head to the great deep, 

 as if to say, " I salute you, hoary monster ! you 

 didn't catch me /^a/time, did you? " The si- 

 lent, delicate plover, and the noisy, stupendous 

 ocean, thus brought face to face, as in battle 

 array, form the most delicious and suggestive 

 combination of minuteness and immensity that I 



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