234 THE BEACH IN WINTER 



where rough fragments churn and grind in the 

 yielding sand. Though the spontaneous voice of the 

 breaking waves is hushed under the load of broken 

 ice, the loud tones of the wind are all the more 

 insistent and penetrating as they vary through the 

 Willows and Poplars or angrily resent the artificial 

 obstructions that men have presumed to erect. The 

 sand is mingled with the sharp needles of snow that 

 load the flying air, and it whisks across toward the 

 protected water in sudden clouds or piles up solidly 

 in long, irregular ridges. 



There are many beautiful accidents in the patterns 

 traced by the wind in the sand, and the figures seem 

 strangely complacent in the bewildering hurry of 

 wind, waves, and cutting sleet. Some of the Scrub 

 Willows are almost buried under the drifts, and others 

 are so robbed of their supporting banks that bunched 

 roots are hanging from them like unhealthy or 

 parasitic growths. But the Willow is an accommodat- 

 ing tree or shrub, and any part buried will send roots 

 into the earth, while any part exposed will spread 

 leaves to the sun. Even if inverted it will accept the 

 situation. Out on the lighthouse piers, where there 

 is no protecting floats of ice, the waves break in 

 unabated fury, festooning the life-line and all the 

 framework with icicles, and surging over the cribwork 

 from the confining reach of the gap. After two or 

 three vain attempts a determined wave rises higher 



