IN OLD MARSHFIELD n 



patriarchal cedars I had left behind, old men of 

 their tribe sitting solemn and motionless in council. 

 Here I had come upon a vast but scattered con- 

 course of young people, lithe and slender folk 

 who seemed to stroll gayly all about the place. 

 Here were plumed youths and debonair maidens 

 regarding one another, family groups, mothers 

 with children at the knee and other little folk 

 in the very attitude of playing romping games. 

 But there were tinier folk than these, too small to 

 be real cedars, gamboling among the others, as 

 if underworld sprites also in cedar guise had come 

 forth to join the festivities. Nowhere else have I 

 seen such a merry concourse of cedars as on the 

 long top of this hill that some Pilgrim father 

 first cleared for a cornfield two centuries and a 

 half ago. Here and there little groups of wee 

 wild rose shrubs seemed to dance up and scatter 

 perfume about their feet in tribute, then stand 

 motionless like diffident children, finger in mouth, 

 stolid and uncommunicative. Hilltops are often 

 lonely, but this one could never be. It gladdens 

 with its quaint fancies. Through a veritable 

 picnic of young cedars I tramped down the east- 



