Then the lower road, with more houses, and, farther on, the beach, the flats--partially uncovered because it was high tide--and the bay.
Behind the Mayo house was the crest of Cannon Hill, more hills, pastures and swamps, scattered houses and pine groves.

Then began the tumbled, humped waste of sand dunes, and, over their ragged fringes of beach plum and bayberry bushes, the deep blue of the wide Atlantic.

The lighthouse was a white dot and the fish shanties a blotch of brown.

Along the inner edge of the blue were scars of dancing white, the flashing teeth of hungry shoals which had torn to pieces and swallowed many a good ship.
And, far out, dotted and sprinkled along the horizon, were sails.
"See ?" said Captain Zeb, puffing still from the exertion of climbing the ladder to the "cupoler," for he was distinctly "fleshy." "See?
The beacon's up.

Packet come in this mornin'.