32 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



lasted, hear the blackbird's music tinkle along the 

 bogs, and see the pond lily, the pure white spirit of 

 Miantowonah, sit on the water. On such days 

 Ponkapoag Pond, " the spring bubbling from red 

 earth," seems still to belong as much to the In- 

 dians, whose favorite fishing ground it was, as 

 to us latter-day usurpers, and the outlook across 

 it to the dusky loom of Blue Hill is as wild now 

 as it was in their day. 



From the north-facing window of the poet's 

 study you may see the hill again, with all its beauty 

 of color which changes with the whim of the day. 

 At dawn of a clear morning it looms blue-black 

 against the rosy deep of the sky. At noon it looms 

 still but friendly and green, so near that the eye 

 may pick out the shape of each tree that feathers 

 the jutting crags. At noon of such a day Ponka- 

 poag hill with its houses bowered in green seems 

 a part of it, the half mile of intervening space 

 making no impression on the eye. As the sun 

 sinks a haze rises from the rich farming land 

 which lies level between the two hills. The spirit 

 on slender ropes of mist is at work, and through 

 this vapory amethyst the larger hill withdraws into 



