CHAPTER II.

But the Child was eager to reach his friends and playfellows on the sea-shore. Much as he loved the trees, and flowers, and delicate mosses, and well as he understood their meek, kind, listening looks, he would soon have grown weary of their mute, quiet ways: he longed for other voices besides his own, and the rich varieties of higher life.

"Do you never wish to wander, and never long for change?" he said to them one day. "I wish I could take you with me to see some of the wonderful things there are in the world. It must be monotonous always to look on the same patch of sky and the same stems and leaves! You must not be grieved if I go."

But as he spoke a breeze shook the branches of the tree above him, and gently parting them, let in a whole train of sunbeams on the mossy bank. And the young fern leaves, and the tender green mosses, and the violets, and all the flowers with the dew-drops on them, sparkled in the sunshine, and waved to and fro in the breeze, and seemed to grow even as he looked at them. Then the Child comprehended that every creature had its own measure of gladness full, and tripped joyfully away. His little white feet made music on the shingly path as he danced down the hill. But when he reached the gleaming strip of sunny sand at the foot of the rocks, he stepped more slowly and carefully, for all around him were his playfellows, and he often found some of them in want of his help.

This morning the shore was strewn with many well known to him, and some strange to him; for in the night the winds and waves had played rough gambols together, and had greatly disturbed many of the peaceable little dwellers in the deep.

The first thing he met was a Sea-anemone, stranded high on the beach, folding all its pretty flower-leaves into itself, and making itself look as ugly as it could. But the Child knew it well; and he gently laid his hand on it to carry it into a safer place. The little red and green and orange ball resented his interference, rolled itself a little on one side, and tried to bury itself in the sand. The Child spoke to it in its own language, and asked how it came there. The anemone replied by a little grunt. The family were not remarkable for clear articulation, and the Child could never get much out of them; but he met with no further resistance as he placed his hand beneath it and gently carried it to a favourite pool of his among the rocks. There he laid it down near the edge, where the water was shallow, and in a few minutes it shot out all its pretty feelers and rooted itself on the rock and expanded into a floral crown--very petal striped with rose and fawn, every petal like a little busy finger, tossing to and fro in search of food and in the enjoyment of life. Thus the anemone thanked the Child, and from all its sensitive points and its rayed lips came to him a soft chorus of sweet vibrations of pleasure.

He could not listen long, but tripped back over the rocks to the beach, treading softly over the leaves of the large brown sea-weeds, whilst their air-bladders crackled cheerily under his feet; and on his way in crossing a channel of sand, drifted up among the low rocks, he came across a little crab, whose shy spasmodic movements so amused him that he sat down on a large stone and laughed till the rocks rang again.

All the creatures always looked very grave and puzzled when the Child laughed, and the small crab did not seem at all to like it, keeping his large projecting eyes fixed on him, and trying to hide himself, as he went, under the brown leaves, but still glaring from his retreat with an expression of wounded dignity.

At length the Child recovered his speech and said, "Are you in difficulties? Can I help you?"

The crab crept out of his hiding-place on being thus courteously addressed, and planting his two fore legs round a pebble, looked up at the Child, and opened his lips so wide that all his body seemed a mouth. Then clearing his voice gravely, he said, "There is no living in the sea in these times: the winds and waves are so inconsiderate and violent, I don't know what will be the end of it. Yesterday morning I had found a most convenient apartment, well plastered and furnished, so as to suit me to perfection. I had spent hours in hunting for such an eligible lodging, and congratulated myself on being at length settled for life: when in an instant a large wave broke over me and dashed my house to pieces on the shore. I hardly escaped with my life, and my nerves are so shaken that I can scarcely think calmly--a most harassing position for a crab of my standing."

"But," said the Child, "what do you mean by _finding_ your house?--most of my friends here build their own."

"That is not my profession," said the crab rather conceitedly; "none of our family were brought up to anything of the kind. Of course it is necessary that some people should be masons and carpenters, but we have all our work done for us."

"What do you do then?" asked the Child.

The crab looked a little embarrassed, but he was too well bred for this to last, so he replied rather evasively, "We eat, and drink, and observe the world; we travel, and occasionally fight, and criticise what other people do. I assure you it is no idle life: so few people understand their own business."

The Child did not altogether like the tone of the crab's conversation, and he replied rather warmly,--

"I don't know what you mean. All my friends, the cockles, the whelks, and the limpets, do their work a great deal better than I could; and I love to watch them."

"Very likely," said the crab, in a cool tone, for he was accustomed to good society; "the whelk family do indeed put their work out of hand in a masterly way; in fact we generally employ them."

"What do they do for you?" asked the Child.

"They build very commodious little residences, quite suitable for people who travel as much as we do, and then leave them to us."

"You live in empty whelk shells, then!" said the Child.

"We migrate from one such residence to another," replied the crab. "When we outgrow one, we abandon it and hunt for another; and occasionally, when we find a convenient one still tenanted, and cannot make the creature within understand our wants, especially if he begins to talk any nonsense about the rights of property and the claims of labour, we turn him out."

"That is stealing," said the Child indignantly.

"Excuse me," said the crab, "we call it conquest. We are soldiers on our own account--free companions. But I must be on my travels again. To-morrow, if you will call, we shall no doubt be able to renew our acquaintance under more agreeable circumstances."

And the Soldier-crab withdrew his long legs from the pebble, and marched away with a braggadocio air among the sea-weeds.

"I do not call you a soldier," said the Child; "you fight for no one but yourself. I call you a housebreaker and a thief;" and he rose with a flushed face slowly, and went on his way, lost in thought until he reached the little beach at the foot of the rocks. The sea had retreated whilst he had been away, and the Child soon forgot his conversation with the crab in watching the waves, dipping his feet in one, and then running away from the next.

So he played until he was tired, and then looking round he saw a lump of jelly stranded just beyond the reach of the tide.

It was clear as crystal, except a little purple colouring in rings at the edge. When the Child touched it with his foot it made a slight plaintive moan, and murmured, "I am alive; be gentle to me."

"How could I know that?" said the Child; "I would not hurt you for the world; I thought you were only a bit of something."

"If you had only seen me last evening," sighed the Medusa. "We were sailing, a fleet of us, far out in the deep sea; we thought it was to be calm, and we came up from the dark depths, to bask in the sunshine. And now I am separated from all my companions, and left to die here."

"How did you come here?" said the Child kindly; "may you not return by the same way?"

"How can I tell how I came here?" sighed the Medusa; "there was darkness, and thunder, and confusion,--waves hurling one another about, until sea and sky were all mixed, and the surface was as dark as the caves below. And I was like a bubble on the breakers, until one dashed me in beyond the reach of the others, and I am left here to die."

"You shall not die," said the Child. And gently taking up the shapeless mass in both his little hands, he carried it to the edge of a rock, which rose perpendicularly out of a deep creek, and there he threw it into the sea.

The Medusa stretched her crystal body joyously,--the receding waves bore her out to sea before she could thank the Child; but he rejoiced in her happiness, and turned back with a light heart to rest in his own little dwelling. For the sun was approaching the west, and crimson rays began to tint the upper surfaces of the waves, while their shadows became blue and dark. And as he climbed the little path, and rested on his little bed that night, he thought, "How glorious it must be far out in the deep sea!"