Wherever you see very irregular shores, as along the coast of Maine, you may infer that the shores have sunk so that the waters of the sea came up into the river valleys, and the hills and long tongues of high land became islands and peninsulas.
CHAPTER X
(OCTOBER)
To-night the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day;
The last red leaf is whirled away,
The rooks are blown about the skies.
—Tennyson.
THE AUTUMN WINDS AND THE ROCK MILLS OF THE SEA
Nothing looks more aimless, more unorganized, perhaps, than the long turmoil of the waves of the sea which begins in late autumn and continues through the winter months. If, with your nose well over the edge of a cliff, you look straight down, you will see something like this: With every forward leap of the surges the waters are divided and entangled among the rocks, and division after division is beaten back by the upright wall in front and the broken blocks of stone on this side and on that. On-coming waves, met by those recoiling, rise into mountainous, struggling masses of wild fury. The whole affair seems to be as clear a case of wasted energy as a Mexican revolution.