E-text prepared by Clare Boothby, Jim Wiborg,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Nothing is so boundless as the sea, nothing so patient. On its broadback it bears, like a good-natured elephant, the tiny mannikins whichtread the earth; and in its vast cool depths it has place for all mortalwoes. It is not true that the sea is faithless, for it has neverpromised anything; without claim, without obligation, free, pure, andgenuine beats the mighty heart, the last sound one in an ailing world.And while the mannikins strain their eyes over it, the sea sings its oldsong. Many understand it scarce at all, but never two understand it inthe same manner, for the sea has a distinct word for each one that setshimself face to face with it.
It smiles with green shining ripples to the barelegged urchin whocatches crabs; it breaks in blue billows against the ship, and sends thefresh salt spray far in over the deck. Heavy leaden seas come rolling inon the beach, and while the weary eye follows the long hoary breakers,the stripes of foam wash up in sparkling curves over the even sand; andin the hollow sound, when the billows roll over for the last time, thereis something of a hidden understanding--each thinks on his own life, andbows his head towards the ocean as if it were a friend who knows it alland keeps it fast.
But what the sea is for those who live along its strand none can everknow, for they say nothing. They live all their life with face turned tothe ocean; the sea is their compani