PLYMOUTH MAYFLOWERS 21 



scouting silently and becoming invisible in am- 

 bush as a hunter should. Here a tiny fleck of 

 sky, the spirit bluebird of the spring which the 

 entomologists have woefully named Lycaema 

 pseudargiolus, fluttered along the ground as if a 

 new born flower tried quivering flight, and brown 

 Hesperiidse, "bedouins of the pathless air," 

 buzzed in vanishing eccentricity. But it was not 

 for these that I lingered long on the seaward 

 crest. There below me lay the bay that the ex- 

 ploring Pilgrims entered at such hazard, that but 

 the day before had been blotted out with a freez- 

 ing storm and gray with snow, now smiling in 

 unforgettable beauty at my feet, bi-inging irre- 

 sistibly to mind the one who sang. 



My soul today is far away, 

 Sailing the blue Vesuvian bay. 



At Naples indeed could be no softer, fairer 

 skies than this June day of late April brought 

 to Plymouth Bay and spread over the waters 

 that nestled within, the curve of that splendid 

 young moon of white sand that sweeps from 

 Manomet to the tip of the sandspit, with the Gur- 

 net far to the right and Plymouth's white houses 

 rising in the middle distance. It lacked only the 



