r which had served
Captain Holt as a landmark on that eventful night when he strode
Barnegat Beach in search of Bart, and which by the action of the
ever-changing tides, had gradually settled until now only a hillock
marked its grave--a fate which sooner or later would overtake this
newly landed sloop itself.

These Barnegat tides are the sponges that wipe clean the slate of the
beach. Each day a new record is made and each day it is wiped out:
records from passing ships, an empty crate, broken spar or useless
barrel grounded now and then by the tide in its flow as it moves up and
down the sand at the will of the waters. Records, too, of many
footprints,--the lagging steps of happy lovers; the dimpled feet of
joyous children; the tread of tramp, coast-guard or fisherman--all
scoured clean when the merciful tide makes ebb.

Other records are strewn along the beach; these the tide alone cannot
efface--the bow of some hapless schooner it may be, wrenched from its
hull, and sent whirling shoreward; the shattered mast and crosstrees of
a stranded ship beaten to death in the breakers; or some battered
capstan carried in the white teeth of the surf-dogs and dropped beyond
the froth-line. To these with the help of the south wind, the tides
extend their mercy, burying them deep with successive blankets of sand,
hiding their bruised bodies, covering their nakedness and the marks of
their sufferings. All through the restful summer and late autumn these
battered derelicts lie buried, while above their graves the children
play and watch the ships go by, or stretch themselves at length, their
eyes on the circling gulls.

With the coming of the autumn all this is changed. The cruel north wind
now wakes, and with a loud roar joins hands with the savage easter; the
startled surf falls upon the beach like a scourge. Under their double
lash the outer bar cowers and sinks; the frightened sand flees hither
and thither. Soon the frenzied breakers throw themselves headlong,
tearing with teeth and claws, burrowing deep into the hidden graves.
Now the forgotten wrecks, like long-buried sins, rise and stand naked,
showing every scar and stain. This is the work of the sea-puss--the
revolving maniac born of close-wed wind and tide; a beast so terrible
that in a single night, with its auger-like snout, it bites huge inlets
out of farm lands--mouthfuls deep enough for ships to sail where but
yesterday the corn grew.

In the hull of this newly s