IN OLD MARSHFIELD 7 



the strange sagas that the blood of no wanderer 

 can resist, and you know something of the lure 

 that led the vikings of old ever onward to new 

 shores as you plunge down the grassy slope to 

 meet them. The stately beauty of the home place 

 may thrall you for a while beneath the trees and 

 the friendly great barn try to lull you to content- 

 ment with the cradle songs of the swallows, but 

 the marsh adds its wild, free tang to the muted 

 trumpets which these east winds blow in your 

 ears, and so you fare onward through a country 

 of enchantment, toward the ocean. 



Webster's well house, where still the ancient 

 spring flows, cool and clear, gave me a drink as I 

 went by. The dyke which borders his cranberry 

 bog and separates it from a tiny pond where white 

 pond lilies floated and perfumed the air, gave 

 further progress eastward, and soon I passed 

 naturally into an old, old path which led me pur- 

 posefully in the desired direction. Without look- 

 ing for it I had found the footpath way which 

 rambles from the farm across country to Green 

 Harbor, where the statesman kept his boats, a 

 path without doubt often trodden by his feet in 



