86 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



wich where the sandy road crosses the State 

 highway and goes on up the sandhills, always 

 with the blue of the sea teasing from behind the 

 keen javelin of the north wind pushing me on 

 southward. It was wonderful, that blue of the 

 cold, wind-beaten sea. It shone through the 

 maze of mingled twigs for miles till I finally 

 lost it in topping the plateau, passing from loose 

 sand to clayey bottom and fairer growth in 

 moister and more fertile soil. One fascination 

 of the region comes in the fact that in a few rods 

 one leaves all trace of civilization behind, unless 

 one may call the narrow road a trace, and trav- 

 erses the Cape Cod wilderness for mile on mile, 

 just such a wilderness as Thorfinn Karlsefne may 

 have tramped in armor with spear and crossbow 

 of his day, such as Myles Standish and his men 

 shivered through or Verrazani and Captain 

 John Smith marched over and mapped. Pitch 

 pines, small oaks of many varieties with an un- 

 dergrowth "trash" of "hurts" and scrub oaks 

 make up the forest which presses narrow cart 

 paths and hangs over them. All the way up the 

 slope the persistent chill of the north wind filled 

 the air with the tonic tang of brine and held back 

 the gray-green mist of leaves that strained at 



