IN OLD PONKAPOAG 33 



soft colors of blue that grow violet purple with 

 the coming of dusk below and the rosy afterglow 

 of reflected sunset in the sky above. Captain John 

 Smith named the range " The Cheviot Hills " in 

 recollection of old England, but all the country- 

 side named it Blue Hill because of the changing 

 wonder of its coloring, which is a constant delight 

 to the eye. On stormy days when gray north- 

 easters send torn clouds, fragrant with the tonic 

 smell of the brine, whirling over it, the hill looms 

 misty and vague, as if it might well be a moun- 

 tain scores of miles distant, instead of the single 

 mile it is along the straight road. On such days 

 all the wild sea myths and northland sagas seem 

 to be blown in over the hill barrier and trail 

 down from the skirts of the clouds into the se- 

 cluded peace of Ponkapoag valley. Hence, to 

 those who dream, come sea longings. 



" The first world-sound that fell upon my ear 

 Was that of the great winds along the coast 

 Crushing the deep-sea beryl on the rocks — 

 The distant breakers' sullen cannonade. 

 Against the spires and gables of the town 

 The white fog drifted, catching here and there 

 At over-leaning cornice or peaked roof, 

 And hung — weird gonfalons. The garden walks 



