Cape Ann 29 
extremities prone in the leaden sea. Recall 
now, if you can, the June roses which covered 
the rocks, the love song of the catbird in the 
briers. Like a sand blast the sleet cuts the 
face as you crawl out upon the rocks to see 
the schooner pounding on the ledge. With 
impetuous fury the great grey green combers 
curl and break and hurl themselves upon the 
land. The sea is boiling as in some vast 
cauldron and the hissing foam bubbles up 
over the granite to the very edge of the fringe 
of huckleberry and wild rose, while the swish 
and boom of the surf drowns all sounds in the 
world—your very thoughts as well. Like 
a barnacle, you cling to a slender shore 
besieged by an infinite sea of frenzy and 
passion. 
Winter on the Cape will teach you how 
grey the world can be; it will reveal the power 
and vitality of the primeval sea, so that often 
you shall reflect—What is man indeed! Your 
grim companions the storms and fogs, you 
will have the shriek of the winds and the 
boom of the surf for music—Spartan music, 
calling to arms,—and you shall need some 
granite in your backbone. When the solitary 
Dogtown pastures lie under their covering of 
snow on clear crisp days, they are haunted 
