Three cormorant damsels were waiting at home,
  Were waiting at home for the dandies so dear. 
  “Oh, say! are they fishing where fierce billows foam?”
  And the damsels sat chattering their bills with fear! 
  For cormorant maidens can fish and can catch,
  And each one considered she’d made a good match. 
  And now for her dandy was moaning.

  Three cormorant dandies were washed off the rock,
  Were washed off the rock by a powerful wave;
  And, quite unprepared for the terrible shock,
  They sank in the depths of a watery grave. 
  For cormorants fish, and cormorants catch,
  But if waves dash high they should use despatch,
  Or their loved ones will always be groaning!

There are some curious rocks in front of the new harbour, notably the “Dragon’s-mouth Rock,” through which on a rough day the water continuously pours; more to the right, between this and the “Plage,” is a curious group known as the “Chinaougue.” [Footnote:  Have never found any one able to account for this title, which is more barbaric than pronounceable.] A bridge communicates with the largest, on which “petticoat daffodils” grow, and the couples that may occasionally be seen going over there doubtless do so to gather these.  Beyond the Port Vieux and underneath the Villa Belzar other curious formations may be seen, to which an iron gate at the head of a few damaged steps gives access.

At Biarritz itself there is really nothing to be seen except the sea.  And yet this sea is so beautiful in its varied moods, that a lover of nature can watch it day after day for any reasonable period, without a feeling of ennui or a wish for anything more lovely!

[Illustration:  THE ROCKS OF BIARRITZ.]

There are many pleasant walks and drives around, but most of them require a whole day, and are more preferable as a drive than as a walk.  The shortest is to the lighthouse and back, and this is only a very easy promenade, taking about an hour; so we will deal with it first, leaving the longer ones to await their turn.

We started one afternoon when the sky was cloudless and the coastline very clear, hoping to obtain a good view of the Spanish coast, and a few specimens of maiden-hair fern, if fortune were favourable.  We traversed half the town, when Mrs. Blunt suddenly came to a halt opposite the Hotel de France, and pointed to a three-wheeled vehicle of the bath-chair type, to which a weird and very ancient-looking steed was attached.  “I think,” said she, “that would be more comfortable for me than walking; please inquire if it is on hire.”  So we applied to a fat dame, who was busily knitting hard by, and having arranged terms, Mrs. Blunt got in and we continued our way.