92 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



yards of us. I, having failed to find even a 

 broken arrowhead, felt inclined to suspect the 

 larks of hiding them from me, as they tripped 

 about over the ploughed land. 



Resuming our places in the carryall, we drove 

 to the edge of a sand slope overlooking the broad 

 meadow between us and Provincetown Harbor. 



The sunset hour was near and the bay flashed 

 fire from a million waves. Provincetown, only 

 a few miles away, looked warm and cosy on its 

 neutral ground between pale dunes and blue 

 waters. It would seem less snug in an easterly 

 gale in mid-winter. A broad placid sheet of 

 fresh water lay between the sandhills and the 

 bay shore. It is called the Eel-pond. It made a 

 fair mirror for sunset lights. 



We drove home over the moors, as I felt like 

 calling the wastes of undulating lichen-grown sand 

 which formed the middle of the Cape at this point. 

 The horse sped along regardless of roads, but 

 keeping a sharp watch for the numerous holes 

 dug in the sand by recent generations of hunters, 

 who half bury themselves on this plateau at 

 the fortunate times when the golden plover are 

 passing on their hemispherical migration. The 

 horse's feet crunched the reindeer moss, and 

 knocked dust from the hudsonia or poverty 

 grass, and pollen from the flowers of the corema. 

 Presently we found in the tableland two deep 



