176 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



went on, the sky grew paler, here and there 

 in the houses a candle gleamed, in the barn 

 yards a lantern flashed the farmer was 

 astir. Yes, dawn was really coming. 



After a few miles we turned off the main 

 highway to take the rut road through the great 

 marsh. The smell of the salt flats was about 

 us, and the sound of the sea was growing 

 more clear again. A big bird whirred off from 

 the marsh close beside us. &quot;Meadowlark,&quot; 

 murmured Jonathan. Another little one, with 

 silent, low flight, then more. &quot;Sandpipers,&quot; 

 he commented; &quot;we don t want them.&quot; The 

 patient horse plodded along, now in damp 

 marsh soil, now in dry, deep sand, to the hitch- 

 ing-place by an old barn on the cliff. 



As we pulled up, Jonathan took a little 

 bottle out of his pocket and handed it to me. 

 &quot;Better put it on now,&quot; he said. 



&quot;What is it? &quot;I asked. 



&quot;Tar and sweet oil for the mosquitoes.&quot; 



I smelled of it with suspicion. It was a dark, 

 gummy liquid. &quot;I think I prefer the mosqui 

 toes.&quot; 



&quot;You do!&quot; said Jonathan. &quot;You ll think 

 again pretty soon. Here, let me have it.&quot; He 



