150 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



white over Chest ledge and the WilHes, that come 

 on to drown the inner Osher rocks in exultant 

 whirlpools and fluff the loose stones of the beach 

 into a foam that ripples over the breakwater into 

 the road that snuggles behind it. 



But that is when the wind is east and really 

 blows, when November has stripped the oak and 

 hickory upper works of the cruiser bare of leaves 

 and she stands grim in her gray war-paint, ready 

 for the winter's battles. Now she is gay in sum- 

 mer greenery and many a string of flower signals 

 flutters from mast head and signal yard. You 

 must go astern to get the wind in your face, for 

 now it sings gently in from the west across a mile 

 of salt marsh, pools of imprisoned tide where 

 night-herons feed and tiny crabs and cobblers 

 scurry to shelter beneath the mud at the j'ar of 

 your footfall, winding creeks that twice a day 

 brim with silver water, and levels of quivering 

 marsh grass, to Cohasset harbor and the green 

 hillsides of the Jerusalem road. 



The island is an island by courtesy only at this 

 time of year, aground in the green marsh. The 

 bashful tides of summer yearn shyly toward it, 

 and twice every twenty-four hours stretch soft 

 white arms up the creeks from Cohasset harbor 



