CHAPTER II 



PLYMOUTH MAYFLOWERS 



The first day on which one might hope for 

 mayflowers came to Plymouth in late April. The 

 day before a bitter northeaster had swept through 

 the town, a gale like the December one in which 

 the Pilgrim's shallop first weathered Manomet 

 head and with broken mast limped in under the 

 lee of Clark's Island. No promise of May had 

 been in this wild storm that keened the dead on 

 Burial Hill, yet this day that followed was to be 

 better than a promise. It was May itself, come 

 a few days ahead of the calendar, so changeful is 

 April in Pilgrim land. This gale, ashamed of it- 

 self, ceased its outcry in the darkness of full 

 night and the chill of a white frost followed on all 

 the land. 



In the darkest hour of this night, I saw a thin 

 point of light rise out of the mystery of the sea 

 far to the eastward, the tiny sail of the shallop 

 of the old moon, blown landward by little winds 

 of dawn, making port on the shore of "hither 



12 



