South Beach. 25 



then, mid the foam, is sent on its journey up the strand 

 again. There is no scarcity of barrels on the beach, and 

 on Crooke's Point, which might be called the Cape Cod 

 of Staten Island, they form the sides of the well. Several 

 have been placed one above the other in the sand, and 

 fresh water accumulates at the bottom. 



All fruits in their season find their way hither, and 

 ocean lays things side by side in strangest contrast. A 

 loaf of bread, some withered flowers, an old straw bed on 

 which, perhaps, a sailor died, often lay close together. 

 Maybe he took some of the nostrums contained in the 

 bottles scattered about, and they introduced his spirit to 

 the unknown shore. 



Thus, when we wander along this sandy South Beach, 

 and see our foot-prints and think of the strange vagaries 

 that beset us, as Hawthorne did on his ramble along the 

 shore, other things come crowding before us too, and we 

 look at the houses, the bulkheads, the line of the proposed 

 railway, and think of the deer and wild turkeys in the 

 days of Dankers and his friend. Do we not then conclude 

 that however desirable civilization and all that it brings 

 may be, yet its presence in no way tends to beautify the 

 scene. 



And now the years have sped on, a great portion of 

 the beach is changed, the long stretch of uninhabited 

 strand has been curtailed. Pleasure seekers abound on the 

 Summer days, and there is a laugh, a gayety, a gentle 

 splashing in the water, and a rumbling of the railroad 

 trains. 



