The ocean, to my unaccustomed view, Seemed having quite a lively picnic too; The waves came slamming at us with a roar, And chased each other pell-mell to the shore. And in these waves, and adding to the noise, A lot of men and women, girls and boys, Dressed in a style that made my good wife frown, Like big-sized corks went bobbing up and down. Some glided out and in, like jumping-jacks, Some rode the waves--a-lying on their backs; And some--as decent folks as one could see-- Made capers that were very queer to see. I noticed Miss Doozell, much versed in books, And quite particular about her looks, And dignified as any one I know, Roll over maybe thirteen times or so; While Jeremiah Jipson, LL.D., Who seldom makes a move above the knee, And who, all former signs would seem to say, Never indulges in unseemly play-- When an irreverent wave he chanced to meet, Stood on his head, and raised aloft his feet. The Ocean has no awe for any one, And always seems to get more'n half the fun. But how the pretty children carry sail! Each with his tiny shovel and his pail, Each working his own little piece of land, And making small plantations in the sand! These little incidents show on their face That farming's natural to the human race! When God's poor pretty ones, 'mid summer's blaze, Have lived 'mongst brick and mortar all their days, Trying their best to blossom and not spoil, Like house-plants kidnapped from their native soil, It must be heaven to sit here in the sand, And take old Mother Earth right by the hand! To lie here, by no brick blocks overlooked, And take a breath of air that hasn't been cooked! God bless you, children! May't a long time be, Before the sand shall cover you and me!