194 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



birds in the grove. In this east storm brought 

 from far spaces on the wings of the east wind 

 there was something of wild unrest. The cool, 

 salt flavor of the air spoke of wild stretches of 

 the North Atlantic where sea-fogs have touched 

 the eerie loneliness of Greenland bergs and 

 passed it on to the wind. In this ghostly dusk 

 of driving mist the smear of the rain across the 

 face is like a touch of phantom hands coming out 

 of unfathomed spaces, gentle but uncanny. All 

 the soft perfumes of wood and field seem beaten 

 to the ground by this rain which brings with its 

 salt tang faint breathings of some distant 

 spiciness. 



The gray light of the lower spaces goes up into 

 the clouds and in the dusk below shadowless 

 shrubs take on strange shapes. The pasture 

 edge is familiar no longer. Gray groups grow 

 where surely was but clear space and all across 

 the long meadow and up the slope mist horizons 

 jostle one another one moment and are blotted 

 out the next. The road entrance to the wood 

 is a black cavern out of which lean grotesque 

 goblins that wave a disquieting welcome. Here 

 to the right and left as I enter stand black figures 

 where in daylight I am sure nothing stood, nor 



