coast. There, from the first of May until late in
October, many fine specimens may be found.
What becomes of the zoophytes during the other
six months: whether they disappear with the
pins, or migrate with the swallows, has never
been satisfactorily established. They have been
seen at intervals, and solitary, as late in the
year as the commencement of November. They
appear then, however, to have lost much of
their habitual liveliness. They move dreamily
through the water. The voice, formerly shrill,
and rather harsh, has toned down; and, indeed,
these belated specimens bear no more
resemblance to the plump noisy animal in its season,
than does Pepper's ghost of Hamlet's father to
the stout original he represents.

The naturalist has, of course, his cabinet of
treasures; and though his practised eyes are
quick to detect a certain value in the many
specimens before him, he is obliged to content
himself with selecting only a few of the best
for preservation. Thus, Nan and her pair of
daughters are Nos. 1, 2, and 3 in my collection
of gems amongst the zoophyte bathing-women.

Old Nan has a heart; albeit it beats, in general,
calmly enough in her wide bosom. It is not
the little cares of daily life that can accelerate
its pace. She has rescued more than one little
fisher-boy, who, venturing too far into the sea
in pursuit of a lively crab, would have been
caught and swallowed by the great tide waves
had not the brave Nan rushed after him, and
held him fast until the danger was past: emerging
after the struggle with the child in her
arms, scolding, choking, but triumphant.

If you have time to listen, she will tell you
of sad scenes on that dangerous coast. Of the
sands strewed with "wrack," of the long
processions formed by the awestruck villagers when
the unknown drowned were carried up in silence
to the church. Sometimes their sorrow has
been for their own people; and one rough winter
night a bitter cry arose at midnight, when nine
fishing-boats were lying wrecked upon the coast,
and there was scarcely a house in which there
was not one dead.

But there was one night fraught with fearful
peril, of which she will not tell you— a night
when the cries of human beings roused the cliff
birds till they shrieked together; when a fishing-boat,
with eight souls on board, in the storm and
darkness, flew crashing upon the rocks. In a
moment she parted beneath them, and the men
were clinging for life to a point where the tide
must speedily overwhelm them. Their cries
were heard in heaven— and by two only upon
earth, Nan and her daughter. These two women
were watching over the safety of their bathing-
machines. They had drawn them up as high as
possible, and, each with a lantern fastened to
her waist, were searching about for driftwood
when Fan suddenly cried out, "Mother, did you
hear that?" A cry to seaward, faint, but still
heard above the gale— borne to them, indeed
upon it— reached the ears of both. "It's away
to the right," said Nan; "who's out to-night?"
"There's Trout's boat, with eight," shrieked
Fan; " they left at daybreak; they'll be gone,
before we can wake the village; they only cry
like that in the water." And what followed?
The next moment saw them, with their strong
practised arms running the nearest boat down
to the sea, and watching their opportunity of
launching out into the deep. It was not very
far they had to go: the cries led them to the
sea-surrounded "danger rock," where eight human
beings were dying. There was scarcely time to
save— for the tide was advancing— nearer and
nearer the waves rolled— one had passed over
them, and, numbed and hopeless, all would have
been lost, had the women stayed to rouse the
town. Brave Nan and her daughter never
thought "to wake to fame," but they did.
Refusing all recompense, they begged that the
money subscribed for them might be expended in
the purchase of a fishing-boat for the rescued men.

Nan had a younger daughter (No. 3); very
pretty, but in weak health. For once, untrue
to her mixed nature, Nan wished to bring her
up to "the land life."

Poor Nan! She had no idea of the
conventionalities above high-water mark, and as to
bringing up a daughter high and dry, she had
not the remotest conception how to set about
it. She consulted a fisherman, who, from being
afflicted with a complication of disorders, had
passed much of his time on shore. He
recommended "nets," the making and repairing of
which he had himself found to be "a healthy,
easy out-of-door occupation, and leading to much
cheerful conversation." It was eventually
decided, when Bess was about fifteen, that she
should continue to wear shoes and stockings,
and other mysteries of the toilet unknown to
zoophytes, and be regularly employed by the
market to meet the boats on their arrival, and
carry up the fish.

Bess, was a good, as well as very pretty girl,
and the "land life " agreeing with her, she grew
strong and well. The visitors to Sandybay,
knew her well, and carried off her photograph.
They took great notice of her, and by many
kindnesses tried to tempt her to take service
with them. But Bess was firm in her love of
Sandybay, and of her zoophyte relations; she
was always pleased and grateful, but she was
never to be tempted away. One day, Bess got
her feet wet, the tide was flowing fast when as
usual she went down with her basket to meet
the boats. The blue waves curled caressingly
round her little feet. "Come and play with
us," they seemed to say. The zoophyte blood
stirred within her, and she began to paddle! At
last, into the water rushed Bess, laughing and
plunging about. Fan, in the distance, with a
child in her arms, and in the act of giving it the
salutary, though suffocating dip, stopped short—
"Mother," she cried, "there's Bess in the water!"
"Ah! she be coming to us after all!" said Nan,
with an immense grunt of satisfaction. And
indeed the morning sun found Bess in full
costume, en zoophyte. She had cast her basket
to the winds, and her lot in with the rest of her
tribe.