PLYMOUTH MAYFLOWERS 147 



gone, and there as the sun passed I saw the cool 

 steel of the bay catch the last rays in little dimples 

 of silver light. Manomet withdrew, blue and mys- 

 terious in the haze of nightfall. Out over the 

 Gurnet, and beyond, the sky caught purples from 

 the colors in the west, and there, dropping below 

 the horizon line, east northeast toward England, 

 I saw a sail vanish in the soft haze as if it might 

 be the first Mayflower, sailing away from the 

 heavy-hearted Pilgrims, toward England and 

 home. The sun's last ray touched it with a fleck 

 of rose as it passed, a rose like that which tipped 

 the petals of the mayflowers that I held in my 

 hand, mayflowers that sent up to me in the cool- 

 ness of the gathering April night a fragrance as 

 aromatic and beloved as is the memory of the lives 

 of the Pilgrims that slept all about me on the 

 brow of Burial Hill. Bradford wrote gravely and 

 simply the chronicles of these, and no more, yet 

 the fervent faith and sturdy love for fair play, 

 unquenchable in the hearts of these men, breathes 

 from every page, a fragrance that shall go forth 

 on the winds of the world for all time. 



