sitive, timid, ran from under chips of
driftwood, waved their antennae at us, and ran back again. One by one
the marbled tiger-beetles tumbled at our feet, dazed from the exertion
of an aerial flight, then scrambled and ran a little way, or darted
into the wire grass, where great, brilliant spiders eyed them askance
from their gossamer hammocks.

"Far out at sea the white gulls floated and drifted on the water, or
sailed up into the air to flap lazily for a moment and settle back
among the waves. Strings of black surf-ducks passed, their strong
wings tipping the surface of the water; single wandering coots whirled
from the breakers into lonely flight towards the horizon.

"We lay and watched the little ring-necks running along the water's
edge, now backing away from the incoming tide, now boldly wading after
the undertow. The harmony of silence, the deep perfume, the mystery of
waiting for that something that all await--what is it? love? death? or
only the miracle of another morrow?--troubled me with vague
restlessness. As sunlight casts shadows, happiness, too, throws a
shadow, an the shadow is sadness.

"And so the morning wore away until Freda came with a cool-looking
hamper. Then delicious cold fowl and lettuce sandwiches and champagne
cup set our tongues wagging as only very young tongues can wag. Daisy
went back with Freda after luncheon, leaving me a case of cigars, with
a bantering smile. I dozed, half awake, keeping a partly closed eye on
the ocean, where a faint gray streak showed plainly amid the azure
water all around. That was the Gulf Stream loop.

"About four o'clock Frisby appeared with a bamboo shelter-tent, for
which I was unaffectedly grateful.

"After he had erected it over me he stopped to chat a bit, but the
conversation bored me, for he could talk of nothing but bill-posting.

"'You wouldn't ruin the landscape here, would you?' I asked.

"'Ruin it!' repeated Frisby, nervously. 'It's ruined now; there ain't
a place to stick a bill.'

"'The snipe stick bills--in the sand,' I said, flippantly.

"There was no humor about Frisby. 'Do they?' he asked.

"I moved with a certain impatience.

"'Bills,' said Frisby, 'give spice an' variety to nature. They break
the monotony of the everlastin' green and what-you-may-call-its.'

"I glared at him.

"'Bills,' he continued, 'are not easy to stick, lemme tell you, sir.
Sign-paintin's a soft snap when it comes to bill-stickin'. Now, I
guess I've stu