th which he thought
bubbled from Florida sands but which in reality foamed beneath his
furrowing keel as he ploughed the sea in search of it. It is the
same thrill which the wilting west wind steeps from the salt marsh
as it comes across, some baffling and alluring ether distilled
from under-sea caverns where cool green mermen tend emerald fires.
The scent of it levitates from the wash of every wave and if you
will watch with pure eyes and clear sight you may of moonlight
nights see white-bodied mermaids flashing through the combers to
drink of it. No wonder these are immortal.

Nor can you take from the things of the sea this life-giving
essence, once they have attained it through growth during
immersion in its depths, though perchance, as Emerson sang, "they
left their beauty on the shore, with the sun and the sand and the
wild uproar." The shell on the mantel shelf of the mariner's
inland home may be unsightly and out of place. But put your ear to
it. Out of the common noises of the day, it weaves for you the
song of the deep tides, the murmur of ocean caves and the croon of
the breakers on the outer reef, and dull indeed is your inner ear
if you cannot hear these things, and at the sound see the perfect
curl of green waves and smell that cool fragrance which comes only
from their breaking.

To the marshes in summer come the farmers from far inland, making
holiday for themselves while they work. They cut the short salt
hay that seems so stiff and tough, that is so soft and velvety, in
fact, and pile it on their wains and take it home to the cattle
that like it better than any English hay that they can cut from
the carefully tilled home fields. Indeed the cattle ought to like
this hay. It is soft as the autumn rowen, and mixed with all the
delicate, fragrant herbs of the marsh. The tang of the sea salt is
in it, and no man knows what delicate essence borne far on the
wandering tides to the flavoring of its fibre. No matter how long
you may leave this hay in the mow you have but to stir it to get
the soft rich flavor of the sea and breathe a little of that salty
vigor which seems to go to the seasoning of the best of life. I
have an idea the cattle love it for this too, and as they chew its
cud inherited memory stirs within them, and they roam the marshes
with the aurochs and tingle with the savage joy of freedom.

Out along the rocks to seaward at low tide go the mossers and with
long rakes rip the carragheen fro