By the Rippling Sea. 51 



On a stretch of the beach two sandpipers kept each 

 other company. One of them was a sprightly, industrious 

 individual, that engaged himself in hunting operations, and 

 the other, a broken-legged bird, with the injured member 

 painfully discommoding every motion. Often it caught in 

 the cast-up sea- weed and caused him to stumble. Never- 

 theless he caught a few fleas, but was forced now and then 

 to rest, and would stand motionless for a time, while his 

 companion waged war on the sand-hoppers. 



A few small brooks came down to the beach, some ot 

 them losing their substance before they got across the 

 sand ; and in one place a rather languid spring issued from 

 the base of the cliff. A tin can, perched on the top of a 

 stake nearby, served as a means of introduction between 

 us. 



The red cliffs of drift material were particularly red after 

 the soaking rain, and additional trees had recently fallen 

 to the shore. I recognized a post-oak, under which I had 

 sat some years back, now dead at the foot of the cliff. 

 Every now and then the earth falls from the trees growing 

 along the bank, and occasionally one of them rolls to the 

 sand below. It produces a feeling of sadness to see the 

 bluff falling away and the waves ever eating into the up- 

 land. It seems as if the ocean was taking what it did 

 not own, that some injustice was being perpetrated, and 

 that the cedars, oaks and other trees that come tumbling 

 to the shore, owe their death to some powerful enemy, that 

 works most stealthily even in the quiet days of Summer 

 sunshine. 



The cliffs extend along the shore for several miles, 



