202 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



ney, bringing deluges of rain to the heat-browned 

 pastures and draping them in obscurity of gray 

 mists, blotting out the roar of cities and the flurry 

 of modern life, making us belileve for a little that 

 we are children of the farm once more. On 

 sunny days we do not quite get this. Even in 

 the east wind we smell the soot as well as the sea, 

 but the genuine northeaster shuts all that out. 



On such days the work of the farm ceases. 

 What hay is out is cocked and capped, snugged 

 down to wait for fair weather. The weeds in the 

 graden drink and drink again and forget the hoe 

 which idles in the tool-house corner, and Jotham 

 putters about the barn, making pretence of in- 

 door work but really luxuriating in idleness. 

 The place is redolent of the rich, sweet odor of 

 the new hay and mingled with this comes that 

 salt tang of the east wind bearing scent also of 

 all the hills and pastures over which it has blown. 

 You may if you will tell what gust touched the 

 elders in white bloom down by the brook, which 

 one lingered in the swamp a moment to caress the 

 azaleas, and which stopped only long enough to 

 snatch a kiss from the sweet fern on the pasture 

 hill-top. 



