ii2 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



flowers the long summer through. Somewhere 

 there may be a more beautiful country than such 

 pasture land. Wandering far I have failed to 

 find it. 



When the east wind blows in on this lovely 

 country of pasture, field and woodland it brings 

 the roar of the sea and the smell of it. The 

 breakers that smash against the boulder-strewn 

 base of Third Cliff send the call of the wide 

 spaces of the earth into the secluded glades, and 

 match the lure of their odors against the fra- 

 grance of the woods. And here between the two 

 lies the level stretch of the salt marsh, the no- 

 man's land, the Tom Tiddler's ground, which the 

 sea may seize but never quite possess, which the 

 country may invade but never overrun. The 

 marsh is a little border world of itself, with its 

 own plants, its own birds, even its own air. It 

 infuses into the cool rich breath of the sea a tonic 

 fragrance of its own, and there is a rich harmony 

 in the coloring of its wide levels that more than 

 matches any beauty that the land or the sea has 

 to give. Colors drawn from the weeds of the deep 

 sea caves and the clear depths of cool brine, olives 



