IN OLD MARSHFIELD 13 



the free salt air of the sea, but a little more gently 

 to the lowly hillock than to the summit of Black 

 Mount. Because of this loitering gentleness it has 

 time to drop among the lingerers there all the wild 

 aromas and soft perfumes of the marsh and 

 pasture and bring all the soothing sounds of life 

 to ears that for all I know hear them dreamily and 

 approve. Quail, the first I have heard in New 

 England for a long time, whistled cheerily one to 

 another from nearby thickets. Nor did these 

 seem fearful of man. One whistled as a wagon 

 rattled by his hiding place on the dusty winding 

 road, and held his perch beneath a berry bush till 

 I approached so near that I could hear the full 

 inflection of the soft note with which he prefixed 

 his " bob white," see the swell of his white throat 

 and the tilt of his head as he sent forth the call. 

 A pair of mourning doves crooned in the old apple 

 orchard and flew on whistling wings as I ap- 

 proached too near. I have heard heartache in the 

 tones of these birds, but here their mourning 

 seemed only the gentle sorrow of a mother's tones 

 as she soothes a weary child, a mourning that 

 voiced love and sympathy rather than pain. On 



