Taken 



FOR MYSELF I confess an ex- 

 travagant affection for the Shore- 

 birds. It cannot be merely because 

 they are so demure, so shy, or so 

 gracefully engaging. Some of them 

 are grotesque, some timorous to a 

 fault, and some frankly hostile. 

 Nevertheless, we get along famously. 

 It must be because we love pretty 

 much the same things, especially the 

 shifting, thousand-toned sands, the 

 impartiality of the tide, the ceaseless 

 murmur of the waves, and the mys- 

 terious edge of the world — the meet- 

 ing place of reality and romance. 

 Anyhow, I love the Sanderlings, and 

 the grey, shy, silent Plovers, and the 

 sanctimonious Godwits, — homeless, 

 careless, happy wanderers, every one. 

 The Californian's knowledge of 

 the Marbled God wit is likely to con- 

 sist of a series of snapshots taken 

 along the beach or on the flooded 

 meadows of some shooting club. 

 Four such pictures come to me out 

 of the teeming records: 



A group of eleven birds is 

 ranged along the water's edge in such 

 fashion that every motion is silhou- 

 etted against the gleaming sand. 

 Sand-fleas, which, as the dictionary 

 solemnly informs us, are amphipod 

 crustaceans, are the order of the day. 

 Strange posturings, — kiwi poses, open 

 chopsticks, and figures of four — 

 characterize the quest. The sand- 

 fleas are not allowed to remain secure 

 in their deep-dug wells, but are ruthlessly dragged out and swallowed in 

 swift succession. As I approach, up-beach, there are signs of uneasiness, 

 but a bevy of Turnstones, which I have been disciplining with the camera, 

 settles among them and restores confidence. A few pause for meditation 

 or digestion, while their companions continue their labors. Altogether 



1260 



GOOD WIGHT 



Photo by the Author 



