As I sit a moment
writing this by the bank, I see the black, clear-cut reflection of
them far below, flying through the watery looking-glass, by ones,
twos, or long strings. All last night I heard the noises from their
great roost in a neighboring wood.
A WINTER DAY ON THE SEA-BEACH
One bright December mid-day lately I spent down on the New Jersey
sea-shore, reaching it by a little more than an hour's railroad trip
over the old Camden and Atlantic. I had started betimes, fortified by
nice strong coffee and a good breakfast (cook'd by the hands I love,
my dear sister Lou's--how much better it makes the victuals taste,
and then assimilate, strengthen you, perhaps make the whole day
comfortable afterwards.) Five or six miles at the last, our track
enter'd a broad region of salt grass meadows, intersected by lagoons,
and cut up everywhere by watery runs. The sedgy perfume, delightful
to my nostrils, reminded me of "the mash" and south bay of my native
island. I could have journey'd contentedly till night through these
flat and odorous sea-prairies. From half-past 11 till 2 I was nearly
all the time along the beach, or in sight of the ocean, listening
to its hoarse murmur, and inhaling the bracing and welcome breezes.
First, a rapid five-mile drive over the hard sand--our carriage wheels
hardly made dents in it. Then after dinner (as there were nearly two
hours to spare) I walk'd off in another direction, (hardly met or saw
a person,) and taking possession of what appear'd to have been the
reception-room of an old bath-house range, had a broad expanse of view
all to myself--quaint, refreshing, unimpeded--a dry area of sedge
and Indian grass immediately before and around me--space, simple,
unornamented space.
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