zostera contrasting against the long bright crest of the surf, or in the middle distance some bare posts set up as a land-mark, or the timbers of some ill-fated vessel rising above the quicksand,— there reigns, on the contrary, a solitude of another kind; it is now broken only by the distant roll of the surf, by the shrill pipe of the Ring-dotterel, or the glance of its flight as it rises noiselessly; a solitary Gull or Tern that has lagged from the flock may sail along, uttering, as it were, an unwilling inward sound as it passes the intruder; every thing is calm and still, the sensation increased by the hot glimmer that spreads along the sands; there is no voice, there is no animal life. During winter the scene may at first sight appear nearly similar; the warm and flickering haze is changed for a light that can be seen into; the noise of the surge comes deeper through the clear air of frost, and with it at intervals hoarse sounds and shrill whistles, to which the ear is unaccustomed; acres of dark masses are seen, which may be taken for low rocks or scalps, and the line of the sea in the bays contains something which rises and falls, and seems as if it were about to be cast on shore with every coming swell. To the old sportsman all these signs are familiar, and he knows their meaning; but to one who has for the first time trodden these flat coasts, some distant shot or other alarm first explains every thing. The line of the coast is now one dark moving mass; the air seems alive with water-fowl, and is filled with sounds that rise and fall, and vary as the troops wheel around; and this continues until they have again settled to their rest. As
