See America First Part 21

We do not know whether it was the beautiful red color of some choke cherries that hung their bunches temptingly near or whether it was extreme hunger, or fear lest some hungrier soul should get to the bushes first, that caused one member of our party to recklessly cram his mouth with what he thought would be most excellent fruit. But alas! things are not what they seem.

He began to pucker his mouth and cough in the most violent manner. "Choke cherries, choke cherries," he repeated between broken coughs; these cherries were evidently named by one who knew the right word for them. This fruit is extremely attractive just before ripening, with its handsome cl.u.s.ters of red cherries; a real feast to the eye but not to the palate, until they change to dark red or almost black. "Some things are to be admired and not judged by the New Testament standard, very literally interpreted, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' We used other tests here and valued this small tree for its beauty, though its cherries were as bitter as wormwood."

It isn't often one is privileged to dine at the Sign of the Lavender Kettle in Sandwich, but this is what we did in Ma.s.sachusetts. The place was neat and scrupulously clean, and the dessert consisted of delicious raspberries, which went far to dispel our partner's belief that, as some theologians teach, creation is indeed under a curse. But we are making too much of the food question, and will say nothing of the honey, fresh buns, country b.u.t.ter, etc., but shall make haste to inquire concerning our night's lodging, for Plymouth is celebrating the Tercentenary this year, and we were informed that it is extremely difficult to find hotel accommodations.

While making inquiries concerning a suitable place to stay, we were approached by a motherly but very officious old lady, clad in black, who, after telling us that she was going to entertain some notable person at her home as a guest when he came to view the pageant, advised us to proceed to the Mayflower Inn, where we were sure of being accommodated for the night. She described this hotel as a beautiful and luxurious inn, situated on the slight elevation of Manomet Point a few miles below the town. We decided to spend the night at Plymouth and pa.s.sed the road which led to the inn. We found that the nearer hotels were all filled, so we had to turn back and in a cold, dreary rain return to the road we had pa.s.sed.

As we proceeded on our way we saw a fishing vessel putting out to sea. How many scenes that vessel recalled! We thought how many families had been engaged in this precarious livelihood, where their perilous calling was prosecuted at the risk of life itself. The solitude and awesomeness of a stormy night at sea along this rough and rugged coast is heightened by the wild tempests which brood over the waters, strewing the sh.o.r.e with wrecks at all seasons of the year. The news of the frequent loss of husbands or sons, the roar of the waves, and the atmospheric effects which in such situations present so many strange illusions to the eye, must have been calculated to work upon the terrors of those who remained at home; and melancholy fancies must have flitted across their memories as they watched at midnight, listening to the melancholy moaning of wind and wave.

No wonder phantoms and death warnings were familiar to the ancient Celtic fishermen, for those terrible disasters that were constantly occurring could not help but increase the gloom which acts so strongly upon those who are accustomed to contemplate the sea under all its aspects.

"In the long winter nights, when the fishermen's wives whose husbands are out at sea are scared from their uneasy sleep by the rising of the tempest, they listen breathlessly for certain sounds to which they attach a fatal meaning. If they hear a low, monotonous noise of waters falling drop by drop at the foot of their bed, and discover that it has been caused by unnatural means and that the floor is dry, it is the unerring token of shipwreck. The sea has made them widows! This fearful superst.i.tion, I believe, is confined to the isle of Artz, where a still more striking phenomenon is said to take place.

Sometimes, in the twilight, they say, large white women may be seen moving slowly from the neighboring islands over the sea, and seating themselves upon its borders. There they remain throughout the night, digging in the sands with their naked feet, and stripping off between their fingers the leaves of the rosemary flowers culled upon the beach. Those women, according to the tradition, are natives of the islands, who, marrying strangers, and dying in their sins, have returned to their beloved birthplace to beg the prayers of their friends."

Another superst.i.tion was recalled. "At the seaside village of St. Gildas, the fishermen who lead evil lives are often disturbed at midnight by three knocks at their door from an invisible hand. They immediately get up and, impelled by some supernatural power whose behests they cannot resist and dare not question, go down to the beach, where they find long black boats, apparently empty, yet sunk so deeply in the water as to be nearly level with it. The moment they enter, a large white sail streams out from the top of the mast, and the bark is carried out to sea with irresistible rapidity, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. The belief is that these boats are freighted with condemned souls, and that the fishermen are doomed to pilot them over the waste of waters until the day of judgment. The legend, like many others, is of Celtic origin."

(footnote: Alexander Bell.)

One can readily see how the imaginative minds of those Celtic fishermen could people their desolate coasts with spectres and phantoms, and indeed we did not need to draw much on our own imagination to see strange figures gliding along the sh.o.r.e in the gloom on a night like this.

Soon, however, the lights from the numerous windows and veranda sent their invitations through the mist-filled air and we entered the hospitable building, and drew our chairs before the glowing fireplace with a feeling of comfort not readily imagined. On leaving the fireside to take a look at the ocean, behold what a transformation! Instead of scudding clouds, a clear blue sky filled with sparkling stars and a full moon, that made a path of gold which led far away over the water. It was such a night as one sees along the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean, lacking only the balmy air, the fragrance of orange blossoms, and the broad leafed date palm reflecting the glorious light.

True, the air was chilly, but the sudden transition from a dull, melancholy scene to one so cheerful had a fascination for us, like the lulling melody of flutes when their sweetness hushes into silence the loud clamor of an orchestra.

>From the s.p.a.cious brick piazza, we had a lovely view out over the rolling Manomet Hills. The blue on the distant bluffs grew silvery in the moonlight and the orchestra filled the place with delightful music, so in accord with the murmuring waves, that we thought as did Hogg, the poet:

Of all the arts beneath the heaven That man has found or G.o.d has given, None draws the soul so sweet away, As music's melting, mystic lay.

After the orchestra ceased playing, a young man stepped to the piano and gave a beautiful rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata; recalling our sojourn in the city of Bonn and the pilgrimage to the home of this wonderful genius. How like this must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred with emotion.

"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were pa.s.sing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of the nightingale.

"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"

There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice exclaimed:

"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the Concert at Cologne!"

This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I will play for her and she will understand it."

It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician. I also overheard something of what you said. You wish to hear--that is--shall I play for you?"

The young girl blushed while the young man apologized for the wretched condition of the piano, which was out of tune, and said they had no music.

"No music!" exclaimed Beethoven.

Then he discovered for the first time that the young lady was blind. With profuse apologies, for seeming to have spoken so abruptly, he desired to know how she had learned to play so well by ear. When he heard that she had gained it by walking before the open window while others practiced, he was so touched that he sat down and played to the most interested audience that he had ever entertained. Enraptured they listened.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the young man.

"Listen," said Beethoven, and as the sublime strains of the "Sonata in F" filled the air their joy was unbounded. Seldom is it given to man to have such appreciation. The flame of the candle wavered, flickered, and went out. His friend opened the shutters and let in a flood of moonlight. Under the influence of the spell, the great composer began to improvise. Such a hold did his own music create upon him that he hastened to his room and worked till after the dawn of morning, reducing the great composition to writing. It was his masterpiece, "The Moonlight Sonata." Thus he found that it is indeed "more blessed to give than to receive," and the gift returned to bless the giver many times."

No wonder the musician played this fitting selection, for the silvery light made all the sky radiant and its crystal, star- gemmed depths seemed to shine with a light of their own, transforming its radiant sapphire gleam, shedding it over the glowing water and sh.o.r.e, tipping with silver the shrubbery at its edge which in the dim distance formed a scene that was enchanting. The softly sighing leaves mingled their notes with the rippling waves and:

"Peacefully the quiet stars Came out one after one; The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done."

Dawn came with a burst of glory, and the oncoming light of the soft, deep blue and the alluring purple. bloom that spread o'er the ocean was Nature's compensation for those who rose early.

Before the stars had all gone to their hiding place and while the light of a few large planets was growing dim, fading into the clay, we were making our way down to the sh.o.r.e through dewy gra.s.s, azaleas, and various shrubs, where the swamp sparrows, robins, and catbirds were greeting the new day from their bushy coverts with their songs of gladness.

How many songsters took part in this mat.i.tudinal concert, we are unable to state, but there were a great number. The volume of sweet notes would sometimes swell to a full-toned orchestra, and then for a brief time it would die away like the flow and ebb of the tides of a sea of melody. The robins were undoubtedly the most gifted of all the vocalists, and their old familiar songs heard along the seash.o.r.e seemed to have an added sweetness; their notes being as strong and pure as those of a silver flute, making the seaside echoes ring. We have heard many robins sing, but never have been so impressed with the excellent quality of their songs as on that early morning, when they flung out their medley of notes upon the balmy air. No one could doubt that here were true artists, singing for the pleasure of it.

All along the sh.o.r.e lay huge boulders telling of a more ancient pilgrimage to these parts; of a great moving ma.s.s of ice in the gray dawn of time, that crept slowly over the land, leaving a "stern and rock bound coast." Perhaps Plymouth Rock itself may have been one of the number that, like these huge gray boulders on which we stood, arrived thousands of years ago.

We returned to the hotel and after breakfast, proceeded on our way to the old historic town of Plymouth. "The road that leads thither is daily thronged with innumerable wheels; on a summer day the traveler may count motors by the thousand." Yet if you pause here awhile you may soon find within a few rods of the fine highway primitive woodland that will give you an impression of what it must have been three hundred years ago. Here you will see heavy forest growths consisting of oaks, for the most part, with maple and elm, and here and there a tangle of green brier and barberry, interspersed with several varieties of blueberry and huckleberry bushes.

You will perhaps recall that Eric the Red, that fearless Viking, is reported to have landed on the coast several centuries before the English heard of the bold promontory of "Hither Manomet." It is well worth your time to saunter along some of the old trails to be found in this region that lead from the main highway of today into the "wilderness of old-time romance, where you will find them not only marked by the pioneer, but that earlier race who worked out these paths, no one knows how many centuries ago."

We now and then meet with people who profess to care little for a path when walking through a forest solitude. They do not choose to travel a beaten path, even though it was made centuries ago. They are welcome to this freak. "Our own genius for adventure is less highly developed and we love to wander along some beaten path, no matter how often it has been traveled before; and if really awake, we may daily greet new beauties and think new thoughts, and return to the old highway with a new lease on life, which, after all, is the main consideration, whether traveling on old or new trails."

Then the force of those old a.s.sociations, how they gild the most ordinary objects! The trail you may be traveling may wander here and there, beset by tangles of briers or marshy ground or loses itself in a wilderness of barberry bushes, yet how much more wonderful to travel it, for its soil has been pressed by pilgrim feet. Some path may chance to lead you where a few old lilac bushes, a mound or perhaps a gray and moss-grown house, still stands where some hardy pioneer builded.

You will probably come across parties of boys who have spent hours in the broiling sun, picking blueberries or huckleberries in the woods or old stony pastures. Here grow a number of varieties, which make the woods beautiful and fragrant. They belong to the heath family and help to feed the world. If you would know the value of these berries, try and purchase some from the boys who are gathering them.

How delightful the thrill that we experienced on that lovely morning of July as we were nearing the shrine of the nation. It would have mattered little even though we had not tarried on our journey here, where memories of days of the past came thronging around us, nor little did it matter now that we saw no signs of earlier times as we first approached the town, for in this residence, manufacturing and thriving business center, fluttered hundreds of flags, giving to the place a meaning at once grand and significant; and we seemed to catch the fervent faith, the glad hope that must have swelled in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of our forefathers three centuries ago.

All during the morning our thoughts wandered far away from the days of the Pilgrims, for there came thronging memories of those absent and distant friends with whom we could never talk again, but in whose memory we once had a place, and who will always live in ours. These dear friends have now gone to fairer sh.o.r.es and they are dwelling on the banks of the "river Beautiful, where grows the Tree of Life."

We came to visit the relatives of these departed friends, who have proven in those terrible days of the Meuse-Argonne that there is more in life than its grim reality; who have taught us that not only on the b.l.o.o.d.y field of battle but while they calmly awaited the last command from the Master of All to make that journey to fairer camping grounds, they were soldiers not only serving their country under General Pershing, but loyal and faithful servants of their country's G.o.d.

The first hours of the day were spent at the home of Mrs. Emma Howland, whose son, Chester A. Howland, after receiving gunshot wounds in the Argonne forest, was taken to the Evacuation Hospital, Number 15, where we were privileged to care for him.

In vain we searched for words to tell of the faith, courage, and self-sacrifice of a dear son, of this mother, whose photograph he so joyfully showed us on the first morning of our meeting, as he exclaimed:

"Here is a picture of the dearest mother in all the world."

How well we remembered that morning when the cheery rays of sunlight, the first of many days, stole through the windows and fell in golden bands and lay on the pure white brow, illuminating those manly features. A light divine filled his clear, blue eyes, as he said:

"I do not know how badly I am wounded, but then it will be all right."

Then we thought of the once lovely region around Verdun, where the homes were shot full of holes. In many places only heaps of blackened stone remained. The beautiful meadows of the Meuse had been torn full of pits, some small, others large and deep enough to bury a truck; and trenches, barbed wire entanglements and shattered trees were scattered all about. The American cannonading roared along the Argonne front, and the German artillery answered, until the air trembled with an overload of sound. Then as the clear, fine voice of this n.o.ble lad filled those halls of pain and death with a rippling melody of cheer, we looked again and a vision came.

In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content, unmindful of the conquer-l.u.s.t of the Hohenzollerns; the evening sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star sh.e.l.ls as they looped across the ghastly field; in what were once sh.e.l.l holes filled with poisonous water the frogs were piping; in the lovely gardens overlooking the Meuse the mavis and merle were singing; and in the violet dusk no hissing sh.e.l.ls screamed their songs of death and destruction, and no crashing of forests were heard from far-thrown sh.e.l.ls, but the heavy box- scented breeze bore the heavenly psalm of the nightingale.

Across the road from the ward moving silently about the avenues of that vast "city of the dead," French mothers were scattering flowers on graves of their loved ones; and then it was understood why Chester Howland sang while the thundering cannon shook the wards. Soon for him there would be no weary marches, no days of terror and nights of pain. Ah, precious gold-star mother, rightly have you said it seems that he is just "away."

The home he once brightened and filled with the beauty of his presence shall know him no more; but think to what radiant fields he has gone, for which you early taught him to prepare!

There no cruel war will ever come to take him from your hearth- side.

I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead--he is just away!