A VOYAGE TO BEARD'S ISLAND. 143 



shallow that more was to be feared from ground- 

 ing than from tipping over, we hoisted sail and 

 let the storm winds do their wildest with us. 

 The canoes careened, the sheets tugged until our 

 hands ached holding them, and off we flew like 

 parts of the driving scud, up the long miles of 

 meadow. Here and there bushes, or tussocks 

 of swamp grass, reared their heads above the 

 water and warned us from the shallows, but in 

 the main the course was clear, and we passed 

 over it as swiftly as the storm itself. 



About three o'clock the sun came out, and we 

 found ourselves near Wayland village. Shel- 

 tered from the wind by a railway embank- 

 ment, we clung to the edge of a half -submerge:! 

 meadow, to watch the flight of swallows after 

 the storm. Perhaps we saw a thousand swal- 

 lows that day, or perhaps my friend's usually 

 conservative mind was too excited to estimate 

 fairly. There were enough at all events to 

 cover every rod of meadow with the poetry of 

 geometry, drawn again and again in living lines 

 of lustrous blue and black, warm chestnut, and 

 gleaming white. The white-bellied swallows out- 

 numbered all others ten to one, but in the maze 

 could be seen barn swallows, bank swallows, 

 eaves swallows, and now and then a purple mar- 

 tin or a chimney swift. Away to the west was 

 Nobscot Hill. Eastward, not more than a mile 



