From
where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge,
bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the
spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the
water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark
rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted
with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the
morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the
rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with
a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer
sunshine. As I looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away,
and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. I thought of Felix, and how much
he would enjoy all this beauty. We all think so much of the scenery at
the Cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. There the
beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the
water--it's the Sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft
lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean.
I was so surprised and delighted that first morning that I spoke out
warmly.
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