The variety exhibited by Nature seems to be almost infinite, take what ground we will for observation and comparison. This has been frequently noted in both the animal and vegetable departments of Creation. I believe it to be no less true of the mineral, especially when we embrace under that head fossil remains.

If there be any feature in British scenery which to a cursory observer appears uniform and identical everywhere, it is the yellow-looking beach along the coast line. Yet it will be found on trial that our beaches differ widely from each other. No two are quite alike. Devonshire is not more diverse from Yorkshire, or Norfolk from the Isle of Wight, than are their respective beaches, as to what these contain.

Nay more: on the range of the Sussex coast—a very monotonous range—I am acquainted, at this present time of writing, with four beaches, which I do not scruple to pronounce totally different one from another. If I were shown the pebbles, I could generally tell from which quarter they came. But to become aware of variety, you must observe certain admitted facts. The frequenters of our coast-scenery, not one-tenth part of whom can plead the sad excuse of being invalids, usually know but little of the character of a beautiful beach lying in their intermediate neighbourhood. Ordinarily speaking, a man will be better informed concerning the plains of the Pampas, or the windings of the Coppermine River, than he is upon the nature of the soil which is under his feet, or of the bough which hangs over his head in the forest. And the reason of this is obvious; we neglect the reality for the sake of the appearance. We greedily devour certain stereotyped works as a kind of royal road to knowledge; but we omit to notice and inquire into the sensible objects which are strewn along our daily path.

Of course, we pay the penalty in kind. Two-thirds of our “book-knowledge” is merely conceited ignorance; not the genuine gold, fit for current coin, but a baser metal washed over, which will stand no one in stead for long.

I will now describe accurately three beaches which occur in three different counties. Any one who makes their acquaintance hereafter, especially if in quest of pebbles, will, I believe, recognize the original of each sketch. One of them now lies far away; but to think of them is like dwelling on the still vivid impressions of a dream.

I am in a district of the New Red Sandstone, and as far as my eye can reach I see towering cliffs of a kindred formation, wheeling round or jutting out in foxy-coloured masses, while the innumerable points of shingle glow like an autumn stubble at their feet. I commence searching near the bright water-line, and what with the simple grandeur of the scene, and what with the balmy breath of the south, I insensibly stray onward for several miles, until the increasing weight in my pockets suggests a pause. Now I will sit down under the shadow of that mid-way rock, light a cigar, and inspect my treasures.

No sooner said than done. What a calming sensation a whiff of good tobacco induces on these burning days! But what have I got? Above thirty globes of chalcedony, blue and white, as oval as bantams’ eggs. I select half a dozen on account of some beauty or peculiarity, and fling the remainder into the sea, there to undergo a fresh impregnation. Next, sundry bits of the red and white conglomerate. Let me advise everybody who has the opportunity, to pick this up. When sliced and polished, the surface obtained beats the inlaid work of a cabinet-maker all to nothing. Next, a couple of choanites, one in the dark “rag,” ribbed like sea-weed; the other in pretty light-brown moss-agate. These two go into my breast-pocket for safety. Lastly, what has never been out of my hand since I found it—a huge, knotted jasper-agate, of five pounds’ weight.

I will only add that the beach here described is a first-rate one in its way, although not my absolute favourite. I had, however, never seen it before, and have never visited it since; moreover, I had not a hammer with me, nor any refreshment beyond a cigar, after tramping over many miles of deep shingle; consequently, I do not suppose I did justice to the contents of that bit of coast.

But where am I now? Two hundred miles away, and the scene is changed. I have just rounded a headland, on whose summit the ripening corn-field is waving and gleaming like the tuft on the head of a woodpecker. Dizzy precipices of chalk stand like sugar-loaves against the blue sky, here and there cleft in a tortuous, yawning chasm. Beneath, the beach seems to slumber, so gentle is that lisping murmur, where the long billowy swell washes the face of the skerries, and lifts up and down their heavy fringe of tangle like a giant’s beard. Two hours are mine, as we mortals reckon, before I am expected at the evening meal. This time I have my hammer with me—no clumsy carpenter’s tool, which might rend or splinter, but a tempered steel.

I did but walk a couple of miles in all. I found sundry pieces of perfectly white agate, one of which proved good enough for a seal. I broke open a score or two of jaspers, and was rewarded at last by a fine slab of the rich brown (quasi-Egyptian). Then I hunted up from the shingle a pocketful of “sponges,” and a choanite in dark purple flint, which is rare. And then time was up, and scaling the cliff by a well-known gap and pathway, I returned home to crab-pie and a cup of tea, and the welcome of a dear, kind face. This part of our coast is much visited now by pebble-seekers.

Now I have crossed a channel of the sea, and have looked upon the mighty three-deckers, and all the flower of the yachtery of England; and I have strolled through a smart modern town, and have passed a meditative half-hour in a very ancient village, and then, at a sharp turn, I have quitted the high-road, with its hot milestones, and picked my way through a blossoming lane where the nightingales were singing; and I have scrambled over the edge of a snipe-bog, and hurried past the mouth of a diluvian estuary, and here I am, stretched at full length on the choicest bit of beach in all the realm of Queen Victoria. In front of me are soaring pinnacles of chalk, ribbed and dotted with primeval flints, like the gun-muzzles in an upper deck. Behind me rises another barrier, formed of the dark “greensand;” and on one side, for the space of a mile, these lofty brows have dipped and disappeared, that the red edge of the wealden might crop out from a wide tract of rush-grown water-meadows. Through the heart of these latter steals a rivulet, beloved of stray wild-fowl, but not tenanted by anything so lively as a trout.

The position of this beach is all that can be desired, and its contents will not disappoint expectation. It has sometimes reminded me of one of those angular nooks formed externally by the converging hedges of a cover and a crop, where you are sure to meet with the hares and pheasants which have come out to feed on your wheat-stubble or turnips. Here, however, instead of the scuttling game, you must look for matchless pebbles.

Often as I have paced this charming strand, the occasion of my first stepping upon it was pure accident, as, indeed, are some of the pleasantest turns in life. I remember one summer’s day, when the solid cliffs seemed to be pulverizing under the heat, and the air-vessels in exposed sheaves of bladderwrack were splitting and popping like crackers, I found four or five specimens within a couple of hundred yards which I have never since surpassed, seldom equalled. Two of these were deep red choanites, conveying the idea, not of dull “oxide,” but that the animal’s blood had suffused the agate; another was a particoloured madrepore, another, a moss-jasper.

This bay, however, possesses peculiar advantages. In addition to the fossils which drop from time to time out of its own overhanging cliffs, it is fed in a remarkable manner from other sources.

Until of late years, Sussex has been the usual resort of those who desired to collect pebbles for the cabinet. The capabilities of this coast vary with every twenty miles. The Brighton beach was once famous for the supply of “landscape-pebbles;” but in the lapse of years its fecundity has been sadly impaired. The best chance remaining now is that of an occasional waif during the March winds on the sweep fronting Brunswick Terrace, and for about half a mile toward Shoreham.

Bognor has long reefs of rock at low water, and, by the usual rule, it ought to yield petrified sponges; for I think that, generally speaking, the locality determines the animal. But the infirmity of the Bognor shore is, that its pebbles are chafed and worn to skeletons by the furious storms which assail this unprotected coast in winter. No fossil with a delicate constitution can long withstand the effect of these gales and plunging seas.

Off Beachey-head, in the other direction, is found a variety which I have not met with elsewhere. The specimen shown to me was vermicular; the creature, which had perhaps been a “sabella,” lying in distinct coils, not unlike macaroni, in the blue agate. This pebble was a very large and perfect one; and the man who had picked it up, and paid perhaps half-a-guinea for the dressing of it, was desirous to realize a five-pound note. I wish much that it had found its way to the British Museum. There is no stone there resembling it.

At Deal and Ramsgate, “fortification-agates” may be readily met with, and sometimes a bit of carnelian: but this last, bright and homogeneous, is rare. The Hastings beach is mainly worn out. Aldborough, in Suffolk, was wont to be famous for its coloured agates; and Fifeshire, and part of Forfarshire, for eyed jaspers: but many years have gone by since I visited either of these counties, and I would not venture to speak with confidence concerning their actual beaches now.

Very good pebbles are picked up at Cromer; and, occasionally, carnelians, both red and white. Felixstowe, a little lower down the coast than Aldborough, abounds in yellow agates, some of them beautifully translucent, and rivalling the carnelian in smoothness of texture. At Scarborough, remarkable specimens both of the agates and jaspers are obtained by those who know where to look for them. Filey has the same charms for enticing strangers to wander onwards along its pretty coast. Indeed, all the Yorkshire beaches deserve and will repay a visit, both in fossils and transparencies.

Carnelians are peculiar stones as to their habits, if I may use such an expression in speaking of inanimate substances. It were absurd to doubt that plenty of them still haunt our English coast; but where they manage to hide themselves has often perplexed me. The method of searching for them is as follows. Instead of keeping the sun behind you, he should now be full in front, like a candle in your eyes. But you must not look at the sun: you must look along the surface of the beach; and whenever a bit of carnelian peeps out from the shingle, you will at once descry it, owing to the position of the great light.

I tried this once at Blackgang Chine for three-quarters of an hour, and in the course of that time I filled both my waistcoat-pockets with red bits. It is true, none of these were larger than pudding-raisins, and some of them scarcely more brilliant; still, the search was very diverting. If the shingle had not been unusually damp, I might have lain down every now and then and looked along its surface; in which case I should, doubtless, have succeeded better.

The mention of Blackgang leads me to speak of the Isle of Wight, as the choicest storehouse for this kind of fossils in Britain.

If it be true, as some geologists aver, that the pearly “Vectis” was at one time joined on to our Hampshire coast, from which it afterwards broke off like a loose morsel from the side of a cake, that would go far to explain the abundance and beauty of its organisms. For, upon such a separation from the mainland, the industrious sea would have great opportunities of denuding the face of the cliffs and sucking the orifices of the chines. Also, this circumambient sea is peculiar in its character hereabouts; and the crystallizing waves impart an unusual lustre to rolling agates and jaspers.

The beaches of the Wight are circumscribed in extent, which is a great relief after the interminable ranges on the Sussex coast. The difference is as great as that between a quiet forenoon spent in the museum in Jermyn Street, and the laborious distractions experienced if we pass a similar interval of time amidst the endless rooms and innumerable cases on the first floor of the British Museum.

The village of Sandown, from the flag-staff on as far as Red Cliff and Culver, exhibits a tempting and instructive shore. In winter, it is better to commence at the dyke, and end with Red Cliff; but in summer, you may walk the whole range with advantage. Here, a couple of hours may be taken to as many miles; and if you do not shut your eyes, you must fill your pockets. But look with resolution for good ones.

From Sandown to Shanklin, in the opposite direction, it is scarcely inferior. It was once even better; but, lying so near at hand, it has been unceasingly hunted over; and to look for a fine pebble there now, is almost like hoping to find a hare sitting in your kitchen-garden. Many tons’ weight of beautiful fossils have been gathered within the compass of a morning’s walk here, in the last few years.

At the foot of Shanklin Chine occurs a singular collection of limestone pebbles, siliceous within, which are well worth examining. Extraordinarily-tinted choanites are here sometimes detected in the heart of most unattractive and mis-shapen blocks. I once asked a successful beaching lapidary there, how he knew them? He declared that he did not know them at all; but that whenever he saw fresh bonzes thrown up, especially if with a deep-sea mark upon them, he would break them all, and generally obtained a superb specimen among them. The objection to this murderous process was, as he confessed, that some of the finest were wont to be destroyed.

Latterly, I thought I discovered a way to recognize the presence of any such choanite. It is to look closely for a peculiar depression in the stone which is connected with the principal air-hole belonging to the fossil. But this method demands time and care.

Onwards to Luccombe, the beach disappears, owing, I imagine, to immovable depth of sand. At Luccombe Chine, it partially revives: but do not linger here. Go on to Bonchurch, and as you approach that lovely hillside, rouse all your energies. Here comes in a mile of sand, small shingle, and half-buried pebbles, which will put your skill to the test, if skill you have. Look out for symptoms of the “tubular” structure, and diverge now and then to the pools among those weedy rocks. Many a beautiful “actinia” in flint lies there snug enough, wedged in a dark cranny, and coated over with glutinous moss. You must really not be idle now. Do not even light a cigar, but hammer and delve and scrape away; only do not give in until you lay hold of something worth the while. Two zoophytes, of the agatine-siliceous kind, were picked up on this spot about a twelvemonth since, for which large sums of money were offered in Ventnor the same day. For one of this sort, an American gentleman, not long ago, gave eight pounds sterling. But there is in Brighton, or was till very recently, a pebble from the Rottingdean beach, for which fifty guineas have been offered to its possessor, and refused. I have not seen it myself, but I am told that it is a spotted pyriform choanite; the material, very beautiful agate.

At Ventnor, red gravel and diminutive carnelians, some of them not bigger than pins’ heads, await the pebble-seeker. Occasionally an agate is found here which is “chatoyant,” like an opal, but this is scarce.

I once tried the Freshwater strand, “ultima thule,” but I only met with doubtful, ragged flints. The north side of the island presents on its shores a surface chiefly of mud and estuary drift, delightful to solans and sea-gulls, but not profitable for the cabinet of the mineralogist.

I ought here, in common gratitude, to say something of the beauties of the Garden Isle. But, though some of the happiest hours of my life have been passed there, I grudge to dilate upon the theme. I could not, if I would, convey to a stranger a sense of the unutterable attachment which I feel for its swelling downs and curling seaward bays. Much of the charm of our old English scenery, which is fast disappearing elsewhere before the railway and the canal, is still to be met with in this sequestered island. Here are uncultivated rocky slopes, proffering rare wild-flowers; ivy-mantled cliffs and moss-grown brambles; bays which in winter witness the howling storm, and sometimes the fearful wreck, but in summer are invested with the calm beauty of a moonlit lake. The inhabitants also, many of them “aborigines,” have a primitive, unsophisticated character in the inland villages; while, on the coast, this is chequered by that roving disposition and semi-superstitious bent which are always to be found among sailors.

Oddly enough, the story of a pebble illustrates this trait of character. Some years ago, I was calling on a lapidary in Sandown who had done a good deal work for me, and done it well. His account was settled, and I was wishing him good morning, when he drew my attention to a remarkably beautiful pebble, ready cut and polished, and begged my acceptance of it. Now the stone, displayed on his board along with other specimens, could not fail to sell; and was worth to him, I should say, perhaps a sovereign. I was very unwilling to take it, but there was no refusing without offending an old friend; so it went home in my pocket. But somehow curiosity was stirred in my mind when reflecting on the circumstance afterwards. Why should he wish to make me a present? Or, allowing for goodwill taking so straightforward a course, why part with a stone of so much moneyed value? A few days after I dropped in again. My friend was out: but I found his wife, and stayed for a chat. Presently I referred, quite cursorily, to the gift which her husband had made me, “and,” said I, “I wish only it had been something of less value.” The gentler sex are sometimes more communicative than their mates. “Ah! sir,” replied Mrs. ?, “there was reason for giving you that, may be. Anyways, I’m real glad that it’s gone from us.” “Indeed! how is that?” “Why, that stone was an unlucky stone for us, and I wished it to go, somehow.” Then I learned from her the following singular tale.

Two brothers, sea-faring men, were great friends of the lapidary and his wife. One day, one of these brothers found this pebble on the beach, and had it cut. It turned out, as I have said, a remarkably fine specimen. It was what they call a “deep-sea” pebble, and the “choanite” of a reddish hue lay exactly central in the bonze of white limestone. The sailors were both of them quite fond of it: and when they went to sea again, the handsome pebble went with them, and was laid “o’ nights” on a shelf by the hammock.

Their boat was upset: one brother was drowned: the other righted the craft and got to shore, not without difficulty. Several articles were missing, having gone to the bottom; but the pebble was safe.

The survivor brought it back to the lapidary, and made him accept of it, being unwilling to retain it himself. The lapidary took it, and put it aside: but his better half found it out, and insisted that he should neither sell it nor keep it. So, he gave it away. This stone I afterwards parted with to a London collector: not wishing to preserve so sad a reminiscence. I took a fossil in exchange, which I almost immediately lost. So, nothing connected with the mysterious choanite was “lucky.”

Perhaps every feature in “Vectis,” from the matted festoons on its honey-combed rocks to the “witchery of its soft blue sky,” predisposes a frequent visitor to approve also of its pebbles. But it is an unprejudiced fact, that in texture and colour they excel those which are found on the Sussex beaches. And while I think highly of our Devonshire jaspers, I remember a jasper-agate, gathered some years ago at Sandown, which might challenge all such stones of native growth in our London museums, and bear away the palm.

Many a calm summer’s evening, many a stormy winter’s forenoon, have I whiled away in absolute contentment on that most interesting shore. In the hot noons of July the bathing is delicious; and after your bath, the shadow cast by overhanging cliffs, and a fanning breeze from the sea, make a ramble onwards irresistible. But I found winter as pleasant in its way. When the gust roared, and chimneys smoked, and the heavens looked dark and disturbed, it was inspiriting to go forth roughly clad, and to watch the fitful changes where the weather-gleam strikes upon Culver; or to mark how that treacherous mist would come creeping round Dunnose, till the “white horses” rose on the sea, and the heavy squall which had long been packing in the offing burst with a wild cry, driving in a yet heavier element with tatters of oar-weed and splinters of broken dyke against the face of the immovable cliff.

After passing Shanklin, the style of scenery as far as Luccombe and the Fishers’ huts, is quaint and picturesque. Here the “Gault” makes its appearance, and the hill-paths are in consequence slippery and dangerous. After this, succeed several miles of fairy-like beauty. And then, the stern grandeur of Black-gang, the coast-line trending away in a range as savage as that of Calabria. And last, the chosen home of the poet, sublime Freshwater, and rainbow-tinted Alum-Bay.

Having said so much on the pleasure of beach-rambling, it may be well to put tourists on their guard in two important particulars. The first of these touches personal safety. No one should set out upon what may prove a prolonged expedition without first ascertaining, on Kalendar authority, the hours of the tide for that day. There are sundry points on the coast of the Isle of Wight, for instance, where after a couple of hours’ progress, on scientific thoughts intent, the pedestrian may find himself hemmed in by a jutting precipice in front, while the advancing tide behind has gradually cut off all hopes of a retreat on “terra firma:” and as the face of the cliff is seldom such as admits of being scaled, it will then fare badly with him if he be not “the king of fishes.”

The other matter respects fatigue. Hearty exercise is desirable; not so that which results in utter exhaustion. My own experience is as follows:—I have climbed to the summit of Sca’ Fell, and then walked back, footsore and fasting, to Keswick. I have swum a mile before breakfast. I have ascended Mount Etna at midnight in December’s snow. But for sheer fatigue, pulling at the muscles, and drying up the marrow, there is nothing equal to ten miles of stiff shingle, while a foggy north-easter currycombs your face, and perhaps your shoe-leather has been laid open by the edge of an inauspicious flint.

If in addition to all this, forgetting “Cording,” you have sallied forth non bene relict parmulÂ, your condition is by no means enviable. Therefore, whoever intends to go beaching in earnest should look to his outer man, and carry with him certain creature-comforts, not omitting to include in these a supply of good tobacco.

Yet one word more upon this head. Have a due regard to the well-being of your eyes. They are, as you will not fail to acknowledge, the working party on these occasions. Manage how you will, they must be subjected to a great stress and strain. Give them half an hour’s respite, if possible, while you sit down and inhale the “weed.” It is unpleasant to find, after too intense a service on the part of your “daylights,” as you return homewards along the meadow-path, that a beach you have left two or three miles behind you is all coming back, whether you like it or no, upon your organs of vision.

On the whole, summer is the most fruitful season for stocking a cabinet, on account of the more powerful illumination cast upon the objects of your search. But in winter the beach itself is very likely to be in better condition, for it is oftener agitated, and many specimens will come to the surface which in calmer weather lie buried under sand. It is important to train yourself to attentive observation, and after long habit the ear will listen intuitively.

If you hear the sea make a dull, booming noise during the night, be on the look-out two or three tides later, when the first shingle now thrown up has sifted and settled down. Large pebbles will then be found on the top of all, the process being much like that which takes place on shaking a basin of lump sugar.

But it will be well for you to be always on the alert. The seaside elements must be coaxed and humoured, if you hope to get anything by their agency. A beach itself is exceedingly capricious. On some days you may walk for miles and remark nothing worth picking up; perhaps the next day, over the same ground, so great will be the profusion of fossils as to suggest the idea that since your last visit a petrified shoal had returned to life, swum into the bay, and there been once more stifled in gurgling lime, or liquid silex, and penetrated by the metallic “moss.”

“The sea yields its harvests without sowing or planting,” and seaside scenery is exquisite if you have come upon it where it is unsophisticated. Happily it is in such sequestered “Edens of the western wave” that the most desirable pebbles are met with. I have gathered rare specimens where the dor-hawk was wheeling overhead, and saucy sea-gulls screeching almost in my face; while a cunning crow would watch from a projecting ledge of rock to see whether I was about to capture, and afterwards throw away, anything which might serve him for a luncheon.

The terraces of Margate and Ramsgate are invaluable to the tired artizans of London seeking their well-earned recreation; but no poet could venture to affirm of them what Scott said of “Brignall banks,” that they are “wild and fair.” But quit these populous thoroughfares, and get away to pearly Beachey Head, or roam the lone strands of Yorkshire or Devon, or go and lose yourself among shadowy nooks and gleaming bays in the sweetest of all islands, and you will possess the genuine colour and scent, and music and mystery of the sea, as the Creator has framed and blended that wondrous element.

You need not look for pebbles unless you like; sometimes it were better not. But saunter down to the water’s crinkled edge, and inhale that indescribable odour from old rock, slippery now with dulse and ribbon-weed—Piesse and Lubin distil nothing to equal it—and con the page in Nature’s volume which lies open before you; it will never give you a head-ache, nor a heart-ache either.

Here, after presently stripping to the elbow, you may surprise a hermit-crab, or catch the spotted “goby” in his dark saline pool, but please let him go again; you ought to give him his freedom, if only out of gratitude; for all this time your own tired body is being braced and refreshed, and your mind, yesterday jaded and careworn, is winning back its elasticity under a sense of blessed repose.

I will now mention some peculiarities in the nature of our beaches, which I have noted from time to time in the book of my experience.

A BEACH is supposed to be a permanent accumulation of pebbles and small shingle, due to such cliffs or banks as are near at hand. And this general definition would be so far scientifically correct, if nature were stagnant like the surface of a deserted mill-pond. But, as Nature is always at work, always shifting the scenes, the above definition, although it sounds like a truism, does not hold good in either of its clauses. The accumulation which we look upon is not permanent, nor is it always due to a neighbouring source. Sometimes the collection of stones which we find heaped up in an immemorial bay has been washed round—much of it, perchance, recently—from a distant quarter. And this might be taking place under our very eyes, and we not know it, just as we do not see the grass grow. Except in very calm weather, beaches are continually travelling, and they travel rapidly along certain lines of coast, until they arrive at a terminal point or headland. To get round this latter takes time, but they do get round it at last, with the help of strong gales prevailing in one direction, and under the rushing tides of an equinox. Now if we suppose a few acres of shingle to be once fairly carried past such a promontory, and discharged into the curve of an elliptical bay, they will be locked in, and may, perhaps, never get out again.

I have myself no doubt that Sandown Beach is fed and replenished in this manner: and the bay being deeply indented with the points of Culver and Dunnose, prominent at opposite extremities, egress is difficult. Yet most persons might naturally suppose that whatever they find on the beach here is due to its overhanging cliffs.

Some of the best pebbles travel fast, and are, in fact, migratory, till they reach such a “nidus” as I have described. This is owing to the rounded form which fossils usually assume. Angular lumps rather remain stationary. Jasper I suppose makes few excursions: while the agates and oval choanites are continually on the move, and may have visited a dozen different localities before they are picked up. I have hunted a bit of yellow agate in this way for above a mile in the course of a few weeks, dropping it again on purpose, and never finding it in the same place.

Beside the above real motion of a beach, there is an apparent total change for a time which is by no means uncommon in exposed situations.

This is, when an inshore gale drifts the sand and conceals for a day or two the entire mass of shingle. It is a provoking circumstance when it occurs, but it seldom lasts long in its effects. The sudden re-appearance of half a mile of solid beach, as if by magic, on a change of the wind, has sometimes surprised me in spite of past experience.

In average weather, when a beach is not migrating, the rise and fall of the pebbles in the same lines is very observable. The only change then induced in a stratum of shingle is by the suck and draught of the sea. This latter, however, is unceasing, as may readily be tested by bathers; everything which you set your foot upon under the wave being in a gentle rolling motion. It yields an amusing diversion in the water, to play the pebbles about under one’s feet. The effect of it, however, is not so quaint as that which I remember experiencing many years ago in Loch Long, where are no pebbles, but plenty of mud. Here, wading out in the shallows to arrive at swimming depth, I put one foot after the other on the backs of some unsuspecting flounders lying on the sand, and laughed aloud at the tickling sensation as they glided away from under me.

But all motion is a source of interest and charm, especially while we are on the sunny side of forty. I believe that this forms one feature of delight in the capture of winged insects. Exquisite as is a good British collection, the dry side of the science, whatever learned entomologists may say, is not the most inviting, and would attract comparatively few persons after a time.

In like manner, who would care for cover-shooting, if all were sitting-shots? But the “runners” and “fliers” impart a zest.

Even here, my friends the seaside pebbles have a claim to please: for, although inanimate, they are not altogether devoid of motion, as I think I have shown.