Of beach birds, properly so called, I saw none but sanderlings.  They were no novelty, but I always stopped to look at them; busy as ants, running in a body down the beach after a receding wave, and the next moment scampering back again with all speed before an incoming one.  They tolerated no near approach, but were at once on the wing for a long flight up or down the coast, looking like a flock of snow-white birds as they turned their under parts to the sun in rising above the breakers.  Their manner of feeding, with the head pitched forward, and a quick, eager movement, as if they had eaten nothing for days, and were fearful that their present bit of good fortune would not last, is strongly characteristic, so that they can be recognized a long way off.  As I have said, they were the only true beach birds; but I rarely failed to see one or two great blue herons playing that role.  The first one filled me with surprise.  I had never thought of finding him in such a place; but there he stood, and before I was done with Florida beaches I had come to look upon him as one of their most constant habitues.  In truth, this largest of the herons is well-nigh omnipresent in Florida.  Wherever there is water, fresh or salt, he is certain to be met with sooner or later; and even in the driest place, if you stay there long enough, you will be likely to see him passing overhead, on his way to the water, which is nowhere far off.  On the beach, as everywhere else, he is a model of patience.  To the best of my recollection, I never saw him catch a fish there; and I really came to think it pathetic, the persistency with which he would stand, with the water half way to his knees, leaning forward expectantly toward the breakers, as if he felt that this great and generous ocean, which had so many fish to spare, could not fail to send him, at last, the morsel for which he was waiting.

But indeed I was not long in perceiving that the Southern climate made patience a comparatively easy virtue, and fishing, by a natural consequence, a favorite avocation.  Day after day, as I crossed the bridges on my way to and from the beach, the same men stood against the rail, holding their poles over the river.  They had an air of having been there all winter.  I came to recognize them, though I knew none of their names.  One was peculiarly happy looking, almost radiant, with an educated face, and only one hand.  His disability hindered him, no doubt.  I never saw so much as a sheep-head or a drum lying at his feet.  But inwardly, I felt sure, his luck was good.  Another was older, fifty at least, sleek and well dressed.  He spoke pleasantly enough, if I addressed him; otherwise he attended strictly to business.  Every day he was there, morning and afternoon.  He, I think, had better fortune than any of the others.  Once I saw him land a large and handsome “speckled trout,” to the unmistakable envy of his brother anglers.  Still a third was a younger man, with a broad-brimmed