Ill 



ON THE SANDS OF IPSWICH 



A FIVE-MILE drive in the early 

 morning of a winter's day over roll- 

 ing country, with few trees to offer any 

 protection from the bleak winds, in a 

 rickety buggy drawn by a still more rick- 

 ety horse, with two other occupants of its 

 narrow seat beside yourself, does not sound 

 attractive, to say the least. The shay, if 

 you so choose to call it, had a decided 

 "flavor of mild decay," and I must say I 

 thought the hour named for its ruin was 

 near at hand, if it did not arrive en route. 

 The only object of interest on the road 

 was an extremely small building pointed 

 out to us by our driver as the only school- 

 house in the locality. A " regular knowl- 

 edge box" he called it. Reaching the 

 last summit, the dunes lay before us to the 

 east, one wind-tossed ocean of sand ; to 

 the north the Ipswich and to the south 

 the Essex River emptied into the dark, 



