AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS 51' 



to fend it from rough winds in that friendliness 

 which seems, like foliage, to flourish in the place. 

 Here is a soft turf of grass in which grow violets 

 and dandelions, both spring and fall, and plantain, 

 cinquefoil and evening primrose have come to 

 make the place homelike. If rough winds blow 

 here rougher rocks fend them off, and though they 

 may whistle over the tops of these in the little 

 valley between there is quiet, and floods of sun- 

 shine gather and well up till the place is full. 



This tiny valley dips toward the sea at the west 

 and broadens to a meadow where I fancy the 

 islanders have at some time grown cranberries, 

 for a few plants remain. For the most part, how- 

 ever, this meadow is set thick with the green 

 spears of the bog rushes which grow so close 

 together that there is little room for anything 

 else. To crush your way in among these is to 

 pass through a very forest of dark green lances 

 whose tips stretch upward to stab your chin, yet 

 burst into bloom from the sides near these tips, 

 as if the full life within them which could not be 

 restrained yet which finds no outlet in leaves, ex- 

 ploded in a lance pennant of olive-brown beauty. 



