ii8 BEACH GRASS 



drifts still lingered. I had been prevented from 

 taking the only Sunday morning train for 

 Ipswich, but I managed to catch a later train for 

 Manchester. From there I walked the twelve 

 miles to my farm at Ipswich. The day was per- 

 fect. Hardly a breath of wind stirred, and the 

 warmth of the sun rendered a hat and coat un- 

 necessary. The Essex Woods road, so often trav- 

 ersed in summer by noisy automobiles and chat- 

 tering driving parties, was silent except for the 

 notes of winter birds that greeted me from time 

 to time. Chickadees, golden-crowned kinglets 

 and red-breasted nuthatches — three fast friends 

 were all there. While I was watching these birds 

 close to the ground at the foot of some lofty hem- 

 locks, I noticed a few scales of cones dropping 

 from above. Looking up I soon discovered the 

 cause of the disturbance, in the form of white- 

 winged crossbills who were busy at their feast. 

 Traversing the broad salt marshes, I arrived on 

 the shore of Birch Island opposite my house, 

 from which, however, a creek forty yards wide 

 separated me. The tide was at the flood, and 

 was rushing in with so much force that the water 



