The wind rose till nightfall, and then its passion broke in tears.
A tempestuous night threatened; but the weather changed its mind as
swiftly as a woman, and the day dawned as sweetly and softly this
morning as a day of young June. The sea is again a shining level,
veiled in a tender mist. Out of this the fishing sail come stealing
silently one after another till again a fleet of them is tilting and
swaying in front of the hotel. One large, goblin sail, which remained
throughout the threats of the weather, looks like the picture of the
goblin in the Bab Ballad which tries to frighten the image before the
tobacconist’s shop.
The gang of Italians who have toiled for three months to hide the
infamies of the Dump, burying them in the sand as fast as the sea cast
them ashore, are taking up the plank walks to the bathing-beach. The
season is over. The barrel, which formed the outermost buoy, swings
monumentally (if monuments can swing) at anchor among the breakers.
At the station the railroad people have become unnaturally amiable.
They call me by name; they take a personal interest in getting off my
telegrams and express packages. In one of my visits to them, I meet the
life-guard in full citizen’s dress, with even shoes on. He salutes me,
but I have to look twice before I know him.