IN OLD MARSHFIELD 3 



wings to it and fluttered upward, pouring out 

 round notes of melody as he went. Webster's 

 most famous speeches were composed while he 

 tramped these hills and marshes and sailed the 

 blue velvet of the outlying sea, and their richest 

 phrases soar as they sing, even as did the robin. 



You may come to Black Mount with its pano- 

 ramic view of the Webster farm, the surrounding 

 pastures and marshes and the little Pilgrim ceme- 

 tery where he lies buried, from either the Marsh- 

 field railway station or that of Green Harbor, 

 both a mile or more away by road. A better route 

 lay for me through the woods by paths flecked 

 with sunlight and dappled with shadow, paths 

 which the Pilgrims' descendants first sought out 

 and which are as fair to-day to our feet as they 

 were to theirs. One can easily fancy Peregrine 

 and his wife picking berries along here on days 

 when the farm work allowed them freedom, the 

 children frolicking about with them and eating or 

 spilling half they picked, as the children do on 

 these hills now. Voices and laughter rang 

 through the woods as I passed, and there is small 

 blame to the pickers if they do eat the berries as 



