182 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



We drove home along the sunny road, 

 where the bakers carts and meat wagons 

 were already astir. Could it be the same road 

 that a few hours before had been so cold and 

 gray and still? Were these bare white houses 

 the same that had nestled so cozily into the 

 dark of the roadside? We reached our own 

 plain little white house and went in. In the 

 dining-room our candles and the remains of 

 our midnight breakfast on the table seemed 

 like relics of some previous state of existence. 

 Sleepily I set things in order for a real break 

 fast, a hot breakfast, a breakfast that should 

 be cozy. Drowsily we ate, but contentedly. 

 Everything since the night before seemed like 

 a dream. 



It still seems so. But of all the dream the 

 most vivid part more vivid even than the 

 alarm clock, more real than my tumble into 

 wetness is the vision that remains with me 

 of mist-swept marsh, all gray and green and 

 yellow, with tawny haycocks and glimmer 

 ings of water and whirrings of wings and whis 

 tling bird notes and the salt smell of the sea. 



Yes, Jonathan was right. Dawn hunting 

 on the marshes is different, quite different. 



