Poets have talked of the unchanging sea (and they may be right as regards the actual water), but I fancy that the beach must be deteriorating.  In the last ten years I don’t suppose I have seen more than five starfishes, though I have walked often enough by the margin of the waves —­and not only to look for lost golf balls.  There have been occasional belated little crabs whom I have interrupted as they were scuttling home, but none of those dangerous monsters to whom in fearful excitement, and as a challenge to one’s companion, one used to offer a forefinger.  I refuse regretfully your explanation that it is my finger which is bigger; I should like to think that it were indeed so, and that the boys and girls of to-day find their crabs and starfishes in the size and quantity to which I was accustomed.  But I am afraid we cannot hide it from ourselves that the supply is giving out.  It is in fact obvious that one cannot keep on taking starfishes home and hanging them up in the hall as barometers without detriment to the coming race.

We had another amusement as children, in which I suppose the modern child is no longer able to indulge.  We used to wait until the tide was just beginning to go down, and then start to climb round the foot of the cliffs from one sandy bay to another.  The waves lapped the cliffs, a single false step would have plunged us into the sea, and we had all the excitement of being caught by the tide without any of the danger.  We had the further excitement, if we were lucky, of seeing frantic people waving to us from the top of the cliff, people of inconceivable ignorance, who thought that the tide was coming up and that we were in desperate peril.  But it was a very special day when that happened.

I have done a little serious climbing since those days, but not any which was more enjoyable.  The sea was never more than a foot below us and never more than two feet deep, but the shock of falling into it would have been momentarily as great as that of falling down a precipice.  You had therefore the two joys of climbing—­the physical pleasure of the accomplished effort, and the glorious mental reaction when your heart returns from the middle of your throat to its normal place in your chest.  And you had the additional advantages that you couldn’t get killed, and that, if an insuperable difficulty presented itself, you were not driven back, but merely waited five minutes for the tide to lower itself and disclose a fresh foothold.

But, as I say, these are not joys for the modern child.  The tide, I dare say, is not what it was —­it does not, perhaps, go down so certainly.  Or the cliffs are of a different and of an inferior shape.  Or people are no longer so ignorant as to mistake the nature of your position.  One way or another I expect I do better in Fleet Street.  I shall stay and imagine myself by the sea; I shall not disappoint myself with the reality.