appearing along the edge of the water, showing that the tide has turned
and begun to recede. In an hour it has ebbed a considerable distance, and
if we clamber down over the great weather-worn rocks the hardy advance
guard of that wonderful world of life under the water is seen. Barnacles
whiten the top of every rock which is reached by the tide, although the
water may cover them only a short time each day. But they flourish here in
myriads, and the shorter the chance they have at the salt water the more
frantically their little feathery feet clutch at the tiny food particles
which float around them. These thousands of tiny turreted castles are
built so closely together that many are pressed out of shape, paralleling
in shape as in substance the inorganic crystals of the mineral kingdom.
The valved doors are continually opening and partly closing, and if we
listen quietly we can hear a perpetual shuss! shuss! Is it the creaking of
the tiny hinges? As the last receding wave splashes them, they shut their
folding doors over a drop or two and remain tightly closed, while perhaps
ten hours of sunlight bake them, or they glisten in the moonlight for the
same length of time, ready at the first touch of the returning water to
open wide and welcome it.

The thought of their life history brings to mind how sadly they retrogress
as they grow, hatching as minute free-swimming creatures like tiny
lobsters, and gradually changing to this plant-like life, _sans_ eyes,
_sans_ head, _sans_ most everything except a stomach and a few pairs of
feathery feet to kick food into it. A few pitiful traces of nerves are
left them. What if there were enough ganglia to enable them to dream of
their past higher life, in the long intervals of patient waiting!

A little lower down we come to the zone of mussels,--hanging in clusters
like some strange sea-fruit. Each is attached by strands of thin silky
cables, so tough that they often defy our utmost efforts to tear a
specimen away. How secure these creatures seem, how safe from all harm,
and yet they have enemies which make havoc among them. At high tide fishes
come and crunch them, shells and all, and multitudes of carnivorous snails
are waiting to set their file-like tongues at work, which mercilessly
drill through the lime shells, bringing death in a more subtle but no less
certain form. Storms may tear away the support of these poor mollusks, and
the waves dash them far out of the reach of the