The Snowy Plover 



that old frump over by the clam-shell there talking to E. G. E. G. was 

 my mate year before last, but she can have him for all I care. Why, he 

 lost a feather out of his wing right in the middle of the season. Got too 

 close to a Hermit Crab and got pinched. And he didn't care, either, that 

 was the worst of it. He has no more respect for his appearance than a 

 drowned petrel. The gulls may get him for all o' me. 



But tell you what happened this year? and why I didn't go north with 

 you? The idea! Why, I wouldn't leave this beach for worlds. No; really, 

 I wouldn't. Somehow it doesn't seem respectable — you'll pardon me, my 

 dear — but it doesn't seem quite respectable to go gallivanting across the 

 country with a lot of people you don't know very well, and none of 'em 

 knowing where their next meal is coming from. And can you always be 

 sure of finding that beautiful mossy country you tell about? Yes; the 

 Aurora Borealis may be very fine, as you say; but how about the icebergs, 

 and the ponds freezing up at night? And how about the Snowy Owls com- 

 ing down to grab you? And how about the falcons and the weasels and 

 the blue foxes? And how about the guns? Why, I don't believe half my 

 gypsy friends ever get back here, even for a look-in. No; little old Santa 

 Barbara is good enough for me. I love sunshine and lots of it. And I love 

 the cool, gray fog that comes stealing in just before sunrise and holds back 

 the heat of mid-July. I love the distant mountain ranges, blue, and crys- 

 tal-clear, or purplish-hazy, eloquent of mystery. I love the ocean, fitful 

 nurse, generous or capricious. She casts our victuals at our feet, bids us 

 help ourselves, and pauses while we glean her offering. Anon, she drives 

 us from the board, snatches all our dainties and makes off, in spite of pro- 

 test. Repentant on the instant, she plucks a better provender from her 

 breast and overwhelms our anger with her wealth. 



And the sand, the glorious, warm sand, the sparkling, rustling, mil- 

 lion-sided sand ! Tell me, Tilly, did you ever see the like of it from Yukon 

 to Peru? It's as fine as sugar and as clean as glass. Fill your feathers with 

 it and shake it out in a prismatic halo. And when the wind stirs it, ah, 

 then it whispers to you of soft enchantments and fairy banquetings. A mil- 

 lion diamonds flash and ten million glasses tinkle while you feel yourself 

 a fairy god in a heaven of your own. Sand ! Oh, sand is paradise enough 

 for me. On sand I was cradled; and sand it was which yielded to my 

 tottering baby footsteps. Sand was my wet nurse; and my meat has been 

 mingled with it. My clothes are colored for the sand. In sand have I 

 loved, joyed, and sorrowed. With sand have I been buffeted withal, 

 scourged, purified, and blessed. In sand have I lived ever, and in sand 

 shall I be buried. 



Pardon my emotion, but your traveler does get on my nerves with 

 his tales of something more. This — this is life ! 



1324 



