rs for
fifty generations, but none the less he feels an impulse now and then to
quit his bench and go hunting, though it be only for a mess of clams.

Leaving the crowd, we kept on our way across the beach to Little Nahant,
the cliffs of which offer an excellent position from which to sweep the
bay in search of loons, old-squaws, and other sea-fowl. Here we
presently met two gunners. They had been more successful than most of
the sportsmen that one falls in with on such trips; between them they
had a guillemot, two horned larks, and a brace of large plovers, of some
species unknown to us, but noticeable for their bright cinnamon-colored
rumps. "Why couldn't _we_ have found those plovers, instead of that
fellow?" said my companion, as we crossed the second beach. I fear he
was envious at the prosperity of the wicked. But it was only a passing
cloud; for on reaching the main peninsula we were speedily arrested by
loud cries from a piece of marsh, and after considerable wading and a
clamber over a detestable barbed-wire fence, such as no rambler ever
encountered without at least a temptation to profanity, we caught sight
of a flock of about a dozen of the same unknown plovers. This was good
fortune indeed. We had no firearms, nor even a pinch of salt, and coming
shortly to a ditch, too wide for leaping and too deep for cold-weather
fording, we were obliged to content ourselves with opera-glass
inspection. Six of the birds were grouped in a little plot of grass,
standing motionless, like so many robins. Their novelty and their
striking appearance, with two conspicuous black bands across the breast,
their loud cries, and their curious movements and attitudes were enough
to drive a pair of enthusiasts half crazy. We looked and looked, and
then reluctantly turned away. On getting home we had no difficulty in
determining their identity, and each at once sent off to the other the
same verdict,--"killdeer plover."

This, as I say, was on the 28th of November. On the 3d of December we
were again at Nahant, eating our luncheon upon the veranda of some rich
man's deserted cottage, and at the same time enjoying the sunshine and
the beautiful scene.

It was a summery spot; moths were flitting about us, and two
grasshoppers leaped out of our way as we crossed the lawn. They showed
something less than summer liveliness, it is true; it was only
afterwards, and by way of contrast, that I recalled Leigh Hunt's

"Green little vaulte