With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there, And you--O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things; where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed; While the little brown thrush that harshly chirped Was dear to him as the mocking bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.

Think of him still as the same, I say He is not dead--he is just away.

--Riley.

The first Pilgrim trail is now Leyden street, which leads from the edge of the water to the fort on Burial Hill. But we first made our way to a real wooded park whose grounds were covered with oak trees, clethra, alder, spice bushes, and green-brier, which we fancied still grew as they did in the days of the Pilgrims. We saw numbers of Indian tepees in this park, which added to its touch of original wildness. We learned that they belonged to the Winnebagoes of Maine, who came down to Plymouth to take part in the pageant. The park was full of blueberry and huckleberry bushes, and companies of the Indian boys and girls were gathering the berries which were just beginning to ripen, giving us a good idea of what the place must have been like before the coming of the white man.

>From this place we followed a path along the sh.o.r.es of a stretch of water known as "Billington sea." It is a lovely lake, that had been blocked off from the ocean by a great terminal moraine until "Town Brook set it free." There is a legend current here, that a man who brought little credit but much trouble to the Pilgrims by his acts of wantonness, was said to have reported the discovery of a new sea; therefore "Billington's sea." His sons seemed to be chips of the old block and caused the colonists no end of worry and trouble by their recklessness. One of them wandered away and became lost, causing great concern among the Pilgrims. He is said to have climbed up into a high tree from which he located his home and also discovered this body of water.

But no matter who the discoverer may have been, it was enough for us to know that we were treading Billington's path along the sh.o.r.e near the water's edge, linking the New Plymouth with that of three hundred years ago.

Here in this seeming wilderness, wandering upon those old trails that in many places are all but obliterated, or vanishing altogether, for a short way among their tangles of undergrowth, you may still glimpse the wooded region of three centuries ago, through the perspective of the ideas and ideals of the present day. "Here we still look back in loving remembrance to that magical little vessel that fought her way across a cruel wintry sea," bearing those brave souls, whose faith and courage have left us in possession of lessons that are priceless.

Anyone who has been in England when the hedgerows are in bloom can readily imagine how the homesick hearts of the pilgrims, after that first terrible winter, fraught with sickness and death, longed for these lovely flowers. The time of the Mayflower's blossoming has long been past, but in fancy our thoughts go back to that early spring when the first bluebird winged his way to Burial Hill, calling up memories of the English robin, which this harbinger of spring resembles. It was the Pilgrims who called him the blue robin.

We love to think, too, of the joyful discovery that one of the Pilgrims must have had, when he stooped to pluck that first flower of spring whose aromatic fragrance was wafted to him by the balmy south wind. Perhaps it was John Alders who first discovered this lovely flower while the bluebird warbled his message of love and spring from a budding alder. No doubt he carried it in triumph to Priscilla as a token of friendship.

Looking out over the land or the lovely bay that spread before them, the Pilgrims, in spite of their toil and hardships, found heart to send word to their friends in England that it was a "fayere lande and bountiful." "So in the darkest times there came days of brightness when all nature seemed to rejoice, and the woods and fields were filled with gladness." When the time came for the sailing of the Mayflower, not a person of all that little band was willing to go back to the land they had left.

Longfellow has given us a picture of the departure in his "Courtship of Miles Standish."

O strong hearts and true! Not one went back in the May Flower!

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing!

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, Much endeared to them all, as something living and human; Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic Baring his h.o.a.ry head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, And thanked the Lord and took courage.

But let us return to the first trail of the Pilgrims that leads to Burial Hill. "Here above the enterprise of the modern town rises this hill, bearing the very presence of its founders,"

where you forget for a time the lure of the woods and sea as you reverently pause to read the inscriptions on the mossy headstones. The oldest marked grave is that of Governor Bradford. It is an obelisk a little more than eight feet in height. On the north side is a Hebrew sentence said to signify, Jehovah is our help. Under this stone rests the ashes of William Bradford, a zealous Puritan and sincere Christian; Governor of Plymouth Colony from April, 1621, to 1657 (the year he died, aged 69), except five years which he declined. "Qua patres difficillime adepti sunt, nolite turpiter relinquare." Which means, What our fathers with so much difficulty secured, do not basely relinquish."

Then we see the monument of his son, an Indian fighter. The epitaph reads like this:

Here lies the body of ye honorable Major Wm. Bradford, who expired Feb. ye 20th 1703-4, aged 79 years.

He lived long but still was doing good And in this country's service lost much blood; After a life well spent he's now at rest, His very name and memory is blest.

Another monument you will see is that of John Howland. The inscription is this: Here ended the Pilgrimage of John Howland who died February 23, 1672-23 aged 80 years. He married Elizabeth, daughter of John Tilly, who came with him in the Mayflower, Dec. 1620. From them are descended numerous posterity.

"He was a goodly man, and an ancient professor in the ways of Christ. He was one of the first comers into this land and was the last man that was left of those that came over in the ship called the May Flower that lived in Plymouth."--Plymouth Records.

Here in the town you may see the Howland house still standing firm upon its foundations, although built in 1667. It has a large Dutch chimney of red brick. The roof is sharp pitched.

Here too still stands the Harlow house, which was built in the Old Manse style in 1671. The oak timbers were said to have been taken from the frame of the first Pilgrim fort and common house which stood on a hill back of the town. How like their characters were the works of those early Pilgrims, relics of those bygone days when character-building and home-making were considered essentials.

Then we thought of that other grave that was recently made in the new cemetery; where the body of Chester Howland reposes. He was only one of the many loyal sons of the 26th Division who braved the cruel ocean in 1917 carrying the principles handed down from their Pilgrim forefathers to lands beyond the waves.

They seized the golden sword of knighthood--an old inheritance from their worthy sires--and with what valor they wielded it, the rows of white crosses in a foreign land attest. Its hilt for them was set with rarest gems. "A mother's love or sweetheart's fond goodbye." A grateful nation saw fit to bring their remains back to their native land. They merit beautiful monuments, but memory of their n.o.ble deeds of valor and sacrifice will be all the monument they need, and by the light of Freedom's blazing torch the world shall read their epitaph written by the hand of Time.

How fine again it is to stand Where they in Freedom's soil are laid, And from their ashes may be made The May Flowers of their native land.

At many hearths the fires burn dim, The vacant chairs are closer drawn Where weary hearts draw nearer them And softly whisper, "they are gone."

The low-hung clouds in pity sent, Their floral tributes from the skies, And sobbing winds their voices lent To stifled sobs and bitter sighs.

In spotless beauty their myriads lay, Upon Freedom's flag like frozen tears Or petals of the flowers of May, In perfumed softness on their bier.

Oh, may they not have died in vain, Those gallant youths of Freedom's land, They sought not any earthly gain And perished that the right might stand.

The death of the following is depicted in "Dr. Le Baron and his Daughters." "In memory of seventy-two seamen who perished in Plymouth harbor on the 26 and 27 days of December, 1778, on board the private armed Brig. Gen. Arnold, of twenty guns, James Magee of Boston, Commander, sixty of whom were buried on this spot."

"Oh falsely flattering were yon billows smooth When forth elated sailed in evil hour That vessel whose disastrous fate, when told, Filled every breast with sorrow and each eye with piteos tear."

One of the seamen is said to have been the lover of Miss Hannah Howland, which probably explains why she has this epitaph on her monument: "To the memory of Miss Hannah Howland, who died of a languishment January ye 25th, 1780."

The grave of the Elder Faunce, to whom we are indebted for the history of Plymouth Rock and for its preservation, is here.

There are numerous other inscriptions quaint yet significant.

Here you will find the oldest Masonic stone in the country.

There is a design at the top, a skeleton whose right elbow rests upon a tomb, the right hand grasping a scythe. Upon the tomb is an hour gla.s.s, and on this are crossbones. At the left of the skeleton is a flaming urn; at the base of which is a rose tree bearing buds and flowers. Near the tomb is a skull leaning against a dead shrub.

"Here lies buried the body of Mr. Nath Jackson who died July ye 14th, 1743, in ye 79th year of his age."

With the Baltimore oriole piping his cheery recitative in the top of an elm; chickadees uttering their minor strains, and mourning doves soothing our ears with their meditative cooing, we left the sacred spot, to visit Plymouth Rock. We loved to listen to the purling undertones of Town Brook and wondered what its liquid music might not tell, if we could interpret its story. Shakespeare was right when he said we could find sermons in stones, and here if we read aright is a sermon that made the Old World monarchs tremble. And still to us it tells of that mighty force that brought it here in the dim past--to be the corner stone of our republic. Its ringing text is still sounding from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

"Tradition has kept the memory of the rock on which the Pilgrims first set foot, and which lay on the foot of the hill. It has become an historic spot, to which the name Forefathers' Rock has been given. No other in America possesses such hallowed a.s.sociations or has so often been celebrated in song and story."

"Here," said De Toqueville, "is a stone which the feet of a few outcasts pressed for an instant, and the stone became famous. It is treasured by a nation. Its very dust is shared as a relic.

And what has become of the gateways of a thousand palaces? Who cares for them?"

Tradition also says that Mary Chilton and John Allen were the first to leap upon this rock, as we read in the lines to Mary Chilton--

"The first on Plymouth Rock to leap!

Among the timid flock she stood, Rare figure, near the May Flower's prow, With heart of Christian fort.i.tude, And light heroic on her brow."

But whoever was the first to step upon this stone, that act we now cherish as the first one toward the founding of a nation, and as typical of the heroism and daring of its founders. "And such it will stand for all time as one of the grand stepping- stones of history."

We wander once more along Town Brook listening to its soothing voice as the evening shadows begin to gather upon it. The sun, like an orb of fire, is sinking in a vast sea of gold through which a few fleecy clouds of a delicate rose color are slowly drifting. The shadowy forms of the night-hawk are plainly seen as they sweep the heavens for their evening meal of insects. We catch their eerie cries that fall from the rosy depths of the waning sunset to the darkening glades around us, and we hear the breeze softly sighing as it caresses the myriad leaves of the forest. The water of the brook grows dim in the deepening shadows. It is the sweetest hour of the day, and as this song of peace floats out over the twilight woods it calls to holy thoughts. It is as if one heard the Angelus of a distant village.

On returning to Plymouth Rock hotel we were impressed with the crowded streets, for from far and near people had gathered to witness the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims. In the gray half light of the evening we saw a majestic elm whose gigantic size told of an earlier time. It may not be so, yet we loved to think that the white settlers' cabins rose around it by the seash.o.r.e. Perhaps the earliest of the Pilgrim fathers heard the first prayers on American soil uttered from beneath its now aged boughs. It probably saw the surrounding forest disappear and with it, the Indian villages, and now looks down on the thriving historic town of the white man. The youths of several generations have frolicked beneath its beneficent branches.

Armies have marched by it. The soldiers of Plymouth may have pa.s.sed it on their way to the harbor where they stepped on Plymouth Rock before embarking on that perilous journey in 1917; and here it is still standing a silent orator of golden deeds in a land of n.o.ble trees. In it one sees far more than so many feet of lumber to calculate. Its gleaming crest in autumn speaks eloquently of priceless deeds of valor and that distant time of the golden dawn of Freedom.

Right proper it was that a nation saw fit to meet here, to do honor to the memory of those free and n.o.bleminded souls who braved the dangers of the mighty Atlantic. Long, severe winters were endured when they had but a scanty amount of food and faced unknown dangers from hostile Indian foes. Uncomplainingly did they endure all of these, rather than submit to tyranny and oppression. Heroic characters they were, with their strong principles and high ideals, to found a great nation. What an epic story of splendid achievement, heroic deeds, and n.o.ble sacrifice those Pilgrim Fathers have chronicled upon the ill.u.s.trious pages of our country's history!

The time is July in place of December, the month in which the Pilgrims arrived. In many respects the place of that first landing has been greatly altered. The waterfront contains rough wharves and is lined with storehouses and factories. Plymouth Rock itself will rest beneath a beautiful granite canopy and seems an incredible distance from the sea, and one wonders how they managed to bridge such a distance to get to sh.o.r.e. Yet if you rely somewhat upon your imagination, you may visualize the place in all its rugged impressiveness, much the same as when the Pilgrims beheld it. Nature seems quickly to obliterate the footprints of man, especially along the sea, and you may wander along Plymouth beach in the weird twilight and listen to the sullen boom of the breakers on the cliff, and see and hear as did they.

The sea has beaten for centuries against the great boulders, yet the stones have been but slightly changed. The coast is still "rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," and the great granite boulders gleam white in the level rays of the descending sun, looking like great emeralds as the silvery crests of the breakers fall upon them.

The evening sky was thickly overcast with clouds as we made our way down to the sh.o.r.e. The wind blew the dark cloud ma.s.ses out to sea, and as we watched the surf curried by the rocks into foam and heard the wind moaning and wailing among the tossing branches of the trees on sh.o.r.e, we seemed to catch the spirit of that time as if "it had been that Friday night, three centuries before, when the shallop of the Pilgrims came by this very place lashed by the tempestuous sea, their mast broken in three pieces and their sail lost in the dusky welter of the angry surf."

The sky became darker, and more menacing appeared the waves as the time drew near for the pageant to begin. A kind of weird twilight reigned o'er land and sea. No light was visible save that from the beacon-tower, which sent a fitful gleam o'er the angry waves; all else was dark, primal, spectral, as was that eventful night which these present-day pilgrims were now gathered to commemorate. The gale dashed salt spray and raindrops spitefully into our faces, yet it dampened neither our spirits nor those of the performers.