The Sanderling 
and a hundred Pipers more; they know the feel of soft wet sand and they 
know the flavor of sand-fleas seasoned with a gulp of brine. But for one 
bird and one only is the highest place reserved. For within this special 
belt there is a very special line, a sinuous line which not in all Earth’s 
Taken in Santa Barbara Photo by the Author 
HESITATION 
history was ever twice the same, a line which has broken into a billion 
new curves while these words are being read. It is the edge of the wave 
which the Sanderling follows, and he is the Shore-bird par excellence. 
Fhe armies of Sanderlings constitute the most mobile militia in the 
world. They are not fighters, but they are eternally foraging, and they 
are as skilled in retreat as in pursuit. They charge upon the very heels 
of the retreating wave, snatching deftly the rations which the enemy has 
discarded; then turning at the exact moment when the waves are rallying, 
they scamper blithely just out of reach of their roaring antagonist. For¬ 
ward and back, forward and back, they patter in ceaseless rhythm. 
Indeed, they seem themselves to be a part of the tidal mechanism, for 
they are swept along at the brink of the wave, a yeasty vanguard with 
foam-white breasts; and then, dorso verso , they disappear like bursting 
bubbles, blending their colors with the sands, which rustle with the wave’s 
retreat. 
It is a matter of pride with the Sanderling not to get wet more than 
belly-deep; hence, if need be, he accepts a little assistance from the lifted 
wing in running up-shore. None knows better than he the degree of a 
wave’s determination, and though he has perfected a mighty stride and 
can pedal like the wind, flight, too, can be as instant. Being by habit so 
