ALONG SHORE 
waters beating against the cliffs and crashing 
on the beach, tell us what latent strength lies in 
our whilom summer sea. The pound of the 
waves is terrific. They rush and dash along 
the ledges and through the fissures, and are 
flung high in air by every stubborn headland. 
After many hours of this wild charging the 
water itself begins to have a beaten and bat- 
tered look about it. It is churned about the 
rocks until it hangs in ropes or skeins of foam, 
and oftentimes the very whiteness is whipped 
out of it—the froth lying in soiled, cream-col- 
ored streaks upon the surface. In such storms 
many a heavy block of granite is shaken from 
the cliff-wall and rolled into the sea, and many 
a new inlet or bay is cut out in a few hours by 
the steady beat and wash of ponderous breakers. 
As for the fate of a ship driven on a bar or 
shoal in such a storm, it can readily be imagined. 
As soon as she strikes the sands the waves be- 
gin to break over her decks, and a few hours 
may suffice to see her stove in and pounded to 
pieces. 
It would seem as though this destruction of 
cliff and beach were anything but a blessing, 
and yet the storm at sea has its uses. If it har- 
ries and worries the shore, it helps the broad 
The 
whipped 
wares. 
On the bar. 
