empty. Really, the position of the clam is the
more dignified, since he moves only with the wave, and the immortal
being in fish-boots wades for him.

The harbor and the beach are thus occupied in winter; but one may walk
for many a mile along the cliffs, and see nothing human but a few
gardeners, spreading green and white sea-weed as manure upon the lawns.
The mercury rarely drops to zero here, and there is little snow; but a
new-fallen drift has just the same virgin beauty as farther inland, and
when one suddenly comes in view of the sea beyond it, there is a
sensation of summer softness. The water is not then deep blue, but
pale, with opaline reflections. Vessels in the far horizon have the
same delicate tint, as if woven of the same liquid material. A single
wave lifts itself languidly above a reef,--a white-breasted loon floats
near the shore,--the sea breaks in long, indolent curves,--the distant
islands swim in a vague mirage. Along the cliffs hang great organ-pipes
of ice, distilling showers of drops that glitter in the noonday sun,
while the barer rocks send up a perpetual steam, giving to the eye a
sense of warmth, and suggesting the comforts of fire. Beneath, the low
tide reveals long stretches of golden-brown sea-weed, caressed by the
lapping wave.

High winds bring a different scene. Sometimes I fancy that in winter,
with less visible life upon the surface of the water, and less of
unseen animal life below it, there is yet more that seems like vital
force in the individual particles of waves. Each separate drop appears
more charged with desperate and determined life. The lines of surf run
into each other more brokenly, and with less steady roll. The low sun,
too, lends a weird and jagged shadow to gallop in before the crest of
each advancing wave, and sometimes there is a second crest on the
shoulders of the first, as if there were more than could be contained
in a single curve. Greens and purples are called forth to replace the
prevailing blue. Far out at sea, great separate mounds of water rear
themselves, as if to overlook the tossing plain. Sometimes these move
onward and subside with their green hue still unbroken, and again they
curve into detached hillocks of foam, white, multitudinous, side by
side, not ridged, but moving on like a mob of white horses, neck
overarching neck, breast crowded against breast.

Across those tumultuous waves I like to watch, after sunset, the
revolving light; there is