s! With what envy they regard the big sister who never wants to come
out of the water! It is pleasant to listen to their prattle as they
stroll over the sands with a fresh life running through every vein, to
hear their confession of fright at the first dip, their dislike of
putting their head under water, their chaff of the delicate little
sister who "will only bathe with mamma." Mammas are always good-humoured
by the sea; papas come out of their eternal newspaper and toss the wee
brats on their shoulders, uncles drop down on the merry little group
with fresh presents every day. The restraint, the distance of home
vanishes with the practical abolition of the nursery and the schoolroom.
Home, schoolroom, nursery, all are crammed together in the little
cockleshell of a boat where the little ones are packed round father and
mother and tossing gaily over the waves. What endless fun in the rising
and falling, the creaking of the sail, the gruff voice of the boatman,
the sight of the distant cliffs, the flock of sea-gulls nestling in the
wave-hollows! The little ones trail their hands in the cool water and
fancy they see mermaids in the cool green depths. The big boy watches
the boatman and studies navigation. The little brother dips a hook now
and then in a fond hope of whiting. The tide has come in ere they
return, and the little voyagers are lifted out, tired and sleepy, in
the boatman's arms, to dream that night of endless sailings over endless
seas.

It is a terrible morning that brings the children news of their recall
to the smoke and din of town. They wander for a last visit down to the
beach, listen for the last time to the young bandit in his Spanish
sombrero who charms the nursery-maids with lays of love, club their
pence for a last interview with the itinerant photographer. It is all
over; the sands are thinner now, group after group is breaking up,
autumn is dying into winter, and rougher winds are blowing over the sea.
But the sea is never too rough for the little ones. With hair blown
wildly about their faces they linger disconsolately along the brink,
count the boats they shall never see again, make pilgrimages to the rock
caves to tell its separate story of enjoyment in each of them, and fling
themselves with a last kiss on the dear, dear sands! Then they shoulder
their spade and rake, and with one fond look at the cliffs turn their
backs on the sea. But the sea is with them still, even when the crowded
train