Records, too, of many footprints,
--the lagging steps of happy lovers; the dimpled
feet of joyous children; the tread of tramp,
coast-guard or fisherman--all scoured clean when the
merciful tide makes ebb.
Other records are strewn along the beach; these
the tide alone cannot efface--the bow of some hapless
schooner it may be, wrenched from its hull, and
sent whirling shoreward; the shattered mast and
crosstrees of a stranded ship beaten to death in the
breakers; or some battered capstan carried in the
white teeth of the surf-dogs and dropped beyond the
froth-line. To these with the help of the south wind,
the tides extend their mercy, burying them deep with
successive blankets of sand, hiding their bruised
bodies, covering their nakedness and the marks of
their sufferings. All through the restful summer
and late autumn these battered derelicts lie buried,
while above their graves the children play and watch
the ships go by, or stretch themselves at length, their
eyes on the circling gulls.
With the coming of the autumn all this is changed.
The cruel north wind now wakes, and with a loud
roar joins hands with the savage easter; the startled
surf falls upon the beach like a scourge.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230