;.V A 
Taken in Santa Barbara 
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 Godwit 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 
A GOOD WIGHT 
Photo by the Author 
