A perfect song of peace and spiritual tone that
told us at once the singer was a thrush - but what thrush? We had
heard the song of the hermit among the Berkshire Hills and could
never confuse his wonderful hymn with that of another species;
yet here was a song possessing the same character of sacredness.
It was a restful lullaby like ,the mingled benediction of wood
and sea on the tired spirits of weary travelers. It had in it
nothing of "pride or passion," but contained the same serene
harmony that vagrant breezes draw from the myriad-stringed
pines; something of the melodies breathed from the ocean. It
proved to be the evening hymn of the veery.
The song of the nightingale, with its trills and phrases, would
make harmony seemingly crude if compared to either the hermit or
veery thrush, nor would the skylark, famous in poetry and song,
bear off the prize were the two birds to be heard alternately.
The English blackbird has a very sweet song, which made the
weary, homesick heart of the soldier in France rejoice, when he
announced that spring was near. Yet if the European traveler
complains that our songsters are not brilliant, let him visit
our land when the brown thrasher, the bobolink or mocking bird
are singing, and he will hear melodies as full of joy and
exuberance as any he may have remembered in his native land.
We have been straying a bit from the Shore Road but, as we said,
the scenery along it is varied, so will your thoughts be as you
move enraptured from place to place.
One almost forgets to eat while so much of beauty lies all about
him; but, once reminded that it is meal time, what a ravenous
appetite he seems to have! It almost provokes a smile now as we
think of the many places along the various roads that are
connected in our minds with the question of something to eat.
Many of the places (might say nearly all of them) were places
where we had dined the year before. Remembering how voracious
and indiscriminating our appetites were, we cannot help
wondering that we are here to tell the story; for how many new
fruits we sampled because we wanted to learn their flavor!
This feeling is no doubt shared by all who recall similar
excursions, when the open air and exercise whetted their
appetites to an unusual degree. We Americans are objects of much
comment in restaurants and hotels of foreign countries, and no
doubt many of the waiters think that we have been blessed with
more than a spark of life, else it would have been smothered
long ago by the constant fuel which we furnish for it. But on a
summer trip, where one all but lives out-of-doors, breathes
deeply the resin-scented air and has little to worry about,
there is not so much of a mystery connected with his ability to
keep on the go.
We do not know whether it was the beautiful red color of some
choke cherries that hung their bunches temptingly near or
whether it was extreme hunger, or fear lest some hungrier soul
should get to the bushes first, that caused one member of our
party to recklessly cram his mouth with what he thought would be
most excellent fruit. But alas! things are not what they seem.
He began to pucker his mouth and cough in the most violent
manner. "Choke cherries, choke cherries," he repeated between
broken coughs; these cherries were evidently named by one who
knew the right word for them. This fruit is extremely attractive
just before ripening, with its handsome clusters of red
cherries; a real feast to the eye but not to the palate, until
they change to dark red or almost black. "Some things are to be
admired and not judged by the New Testament standard, very
literally interpreted, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' We
used other tests here and valued this small tree for its beauty,
though its cherries were as bitter as wormwood."
It isn't often one is privileged to dine at the Sign of the
Lavender Kettle in Sandwich, but this is what we did in
Massachusetts. The place was neat and scrupulously clean, and
the dessert consisted of delicious raspberries, which went far
to dispel our partner's belief that, as some theologians teach,
creation is indeed under a curse. But we are making too much of
the food question, and will say nothing of the honey, fresh
buns, country butter, etc., but shall make haste to inquire
concerning our night's lodging, for Plymouth is celebrating the
Tercentenary this year, and we were informed that it is
extremely difficult to find hotel accommodations.
While making inquiries concerning a suitable place to stay, we
were approached by a motherly but very officious old lady, clad
in black, who, after telling us that she was going to entertain
some notable person at her home as a guest when he came to view
the pageant, advised us to proceed to the Mayflower Inn, where
we were sure of being accommodated for the night. She described
this hotel as a beautiful and luxurious inn, situated on the
slight elevation of Manomet Point a few miles below the town. We
decided to spend the night at Plymouth and passed the road which
led to the inn. We found that the nearer hotels were all filled,
so we had to turn back and in a cold, dreary rain return to the
road we had passed.
As we proceeded on our way we saw a fishing vessel putting out
to sea. How many scenes that vessel recalled! We thought how
many families had been engaged in this precarious livelihood,
where their perilous calling was prosecuted at the risk of life
itself. The solitude and awesomeness of a stormy night at sea
along this rough and rugged coast is heightened by the wild
tempests which brood over the waters, strewing the shore with
wrecks at all seasons of the year.
