ou have the right boots on, over the
never-ending sharp ridges of the rocks; you can pass hours gathering
_laver_, though it is not at its best just there; and you can find
sea-anemones and such treasure-trove as pit props, and boxes of butter,
yea! and even casks of wine after a storm if the gods be kind to you.

Also you can don your bathing dress in comfort behind the wreck, one of
many, which has remained as witness to the force of the terrific gales
and the ripping propensities of the saw-teethed rocks.

Walk in from Lee or Mortehoe, Woolacombe or Croyde, over fields in
which lambs stand on their front feet in exuberance of youth, or caper
on their back ones until called to order by their maternal parent; or
through lanes lined with primroses and violets, or roses, or nuts, or
berries, according to the season, whilst on the top twig of the high
hedges yellow-hammers, chaffinches, robins and the like gossip to you
about the hawk hovering in the distance.

Arrived there, pause on the edge of the incline. _Don't_ go down if
you see a paper bag fluttering in the breeze, because a paper bag is
but a forerunner of lanky locks dripping on a towel-covered shoulder,
and bare and uncomely feet fiddling in the warm sand, whilst adjacent
is the rock over which the faded blue bathing dress hangs out to dry.

Wait for the empty hour and then fly into the second cove, and the
next, and the next, but--_don't forget the tide_!

The sand-covered rough-haired terrier stood with his head cocked on one
side, looking at the wonderful, waving, glistening mass in front of him.

It certainly looked like seaweed, but it didn't smell like it, and long
bits of it floated in the air just like golden threads; besides, there
was something uncanny about it which sent thrills into the roots of his
rough hair, causing it to rise in clumps along his spine.

It looked as if there were something dead underneath, too, and yet it
didn't; anyway it certainly did not look as though it were meant to be
played with or barked at; and he hastened back along the treacherous
narrow passage, which connects the two last coves, in search of
him-who-knew-all and was never afraid.

"No, old fellow!" was the only response he got to his invitation to
"come and see." "I've already been fooled over anemones, and rooks,
and passing cloud shadows, and very dead starfish--nothing' doin', so
calm yourself!"

But the dog backed into a pool, emitting barks which we