204 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



sprinkled the hearth with an attic salt of snow 

 for the seasoning of them for the country palate. 

 I do not doubt Jotham's grandfather told them of 

 his grandfather and that they belong to neither 

 but are local folk lore, pasture sagas, changelings 

 born of the queer union of east wind and blue- 

 berry blooms, brought up by hand — farm hand. 

 "My grandfather," says Jotham, "was a great 

 hunter. On stormy days like this he would take 

 down his old long, singlebarrelled gun and go out 

 and bring home all kinds of game, mostly ducks 

 and geese. In his day the ducks and geese bred 

 around here and you could get 'em any time, but 

 the best shooting was in the early fall on a north- 

 easter. The heavy waves down on the coast 

 drive the birds out of their feeding grounds and 

 they come up to the fresh-water ponds inland to 

 drink and get a change of feed. It is the same 

 way with the shore birds, yellow-legs and plover 

 and the like, though in my grandfather's day they 

 didn't care much about such small game. Bigger 

 birds were plenty enough. Grandfather used to 

 hate yellow-legs, though, for they are telltales. 



"Once he went over to Muddy Pond loaded 

 for duck. It is a great place for ducks. In 



