Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur and does but kiss
the strand; now, after many such abortive efforts, it rears itself up
in an unbroken line, heightening as it advances, without a speck of
foam on its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings itself
forward and rushes far up the beach!
As I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I remember that I was
startled, as Robinson Crusoe might have been, by the sense that human
life was within the magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in the remote
distance of the beach, appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier things
such as might tread upon the feathery spray, was a group of girls.
Hardly had I beheld them, when they passed into the shadow of the rocks
and vanished. To comfort myself—for truly I would fain have gazed a
while longer—I made acquaintance with a flock of beach-birds. These
little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a stone’s-throw
along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for food upon its margin. Yet,
with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a
continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. The sea was each
little bird’s great playmate. They chased it downward as it swept back,
and again ran up swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes
overtook them and bore them off their feet. But they floated as lightly
as one of their own feathers on the breaking crest. In their airy
flutterings they seemed to rest on the evanescent spray. Their
images—long-legged little figures with gray backs and snowy bosoms—were
seen as distinctly as the realities in the mirror of the glistening
strand. As I advanced they flew a score or two of yards, and, again
alighting, recommenced their dalliance with the surf-wave; and thus
they bore me company along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies,
till at its extremity they took wing over the ocean and were gone.
After forming a friendship with these small surf-spirits, it is really
worth a sigh to find no memorial of them save their multitudinous
little tracks in the sand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account