The train had just rumbled across the upper fields, setting the house a-tremble and starting the glasses tinkling on the shelves. It was time to go for the evening mail.

From our place, the road stretched itself free of the clearing and ran down into the hollow filled with the too-sweet perfume of lilies floating on the waters of Beaver Dam. It cut through the thicket where wild vines of hops and grapes grew lush, and passed the matted hedge of blackberry and raspberry briars beyond which the boys went swimming. Then up a steep hill the road slowly curved and stopped before a black and gold sign which announced with pride that the little store above whose door it hung was the Post Office.

Mail sacks from the train were being carried into the interior, now dimly lighted by two oil lamps burning in reflector brackets on the wall. A glass-covered counter offered a selection of candy, gum, shoelaces, pencils and fancy crackers. On the shelves bread, soap, writing paper, lamp chimneys, wicks and other sundry items waited to replenish the housewife's stock. Barrels held flour and sugar. A tin container with handle and spout bore the label "kerosene". Pounds and ounces were most exactly measured out upon the counter scale. A coal stove that was not used in summer completed the equipment.

The Post Office occupied one side of the store. A wall formed by numbered glass letter boxes rose some five or six feet from the floor. Behind it, the postmaster and his helper sorted out the mail, slipping it into the correct boxes. The owner unlocked the box from the front. Those without boxes claimed their mail by name when all was ready and the window had been raised for the sale of stamps.

While the sorting was in progress, people gathered from all directions. From up the hill and down the road, through fields, along by-paths and out of garden gates they came. Everyone was heading for the spot where the harp strings of emotion are plucked by little paper packets stamped and sealed. Two anxious girls with braided hair jumped up and down, stretching their necks to see what was arriving. A dozen boys stood on the porch aiming sling shots at trees or carving initials on the posts. Old men in blue shirts chewed tobacco, leaning up against the door jamb to comment on crops or weather. They squinted down their wrinkled noses at the latest bulletin tacked up on the wall. A farm hand wearily climbed the hill, a lunch pail in his hand, a scythe across his shoulder. The wit made sure all would hear his sallies, as empty as the barrel on which he sat. Neglecting his ruddy forge across the way, the blacksmith strolled, grimy with soot, a leather apron hanging down his front. Bicycles and carriages stood all around as though they, too, expected mail. The village dandy hurried up the steps, hair slicked and smelling of some flowery ointment, a loud tie flying from his open jacket, shoes shining like the sun. Of course, he could not wait; he must be off again at once, as though he had some place to go other than the cow path that led straight by his lowly door. There was, however, time enough for ogling at the girls who stood about in summery dresses starched and dainty. They looked away in scorn and would have none of him, for they, in turn, had primped for others. They giggled and whispered coyly before the local swains who lolled, oblivious to their presence and their charms, with legs sprawled out on barrels or across the railing of the porch.

That sudden crowding toward the door told us the sorting had been finished. A young girl hurried out, her cheeks aflame, a love note hidden in her dress. The housewife clutched the catalogue for which she had been waiting many weeks. The little girls were thrilled! Their packages contained birthday presents promised by their aunt. A white-haired woman crumpled the letter in her hand and shouted for all the world to hear, "A grandson! Born three days ago to Jim and Anna!" The old man put his shaking hand before his eyes. The notice could not read, "Foreclosure!" After all his struggles he must let the homestead go.

Our mail was unimportant. We took it with letters for two neighbors and started home. While we had waited, night had come. Other paths soon parted from our own. Our footsteps were the only sound of human life that could be heard. The way was lonely. Beyond the dam, bushes took on unfamiliar shapes. The moon, swathed in misty veils of cloud, was drifting, drifting behind the lacy pattern of the trees. Eerie shadows fell across the road and whippoorwills were clearly calling. How welcome was the lamplight in our window! How safe we felt from troubles and from darkness when we reached the kitchen door!

Haying Time

The summer moved along. August nights were cold. Katydids began to call and answer. Six weeks later, we were told, the first frost would brush the leaves with red and yellow. Guinea hens were roosting nightly high up in the oak and sending forth their weird, peculiar note of warning if, in the darkness, stealthy fox or weasel prowled on padded feet.

At noon, the days were scorching. Haying time had come. Whenever the hayrack set out in the morning for the marshy fields along the shore, we children might ride along if we were "a-minded". Of course we went wherever there was the chance to wander in these meadows where large pink marshflowers grew, tipped by every little breeze in all directions, like temple bells set ringing.

Such a day and place were brimming with excitement. Scattered all around among the marshflowers grew stiff, low bayberry bushes. Along their stubborn little branches clustered tight bunches of small berries covered with a fine white powdery coating. A mold was hanging waiting in our pantry at the farm. If filled with wicks and hot wax from the melted berries the finest tangy, gray-green candles would be fashioned. To gather all the berries that we could was the first project of this most exciting day.

Not far away, a wobbly little dock jutted out into the waters of the Great South Bay. Here lay adventure number two. A piece of salt pork weighted down with stones and lowered to the shallow bottom proved to be exactly what the most fastidious crabs had long been awaiting. The faintest nibble told us that it had been noticed. We raised the line, ever so gently, a few inches. The interested party down below kept up its nibbling. Higher rose the line. Now one could see, in faintest outline, half way up from the bottom, a huge brown crab whose two front claws, pale blue and white, embraced the piece of pork. More slow and gentle pulling on the line—we dared not speak or move—a skillful slipping under of the scoop, and lo, the prize was ours! It tangled with the net and fought but was finally deposited in the burlap bag. An hour or two spent thus and we might have some forty giant crabs. The bags were closed and knotted, tied securely to the post, and dropped into the water so that their contents might keep fresh until we picked them up on our way home.

Beyond the shore road rose the dunes, with houses scattered here and there. If nights had been extremely cold, the beach plums growing all about would by now be turning royal reddish purple. Along the crest of dunes, one might lie down to rest, completely hidden by the tall marsh grasses. Or one might run along the endless, empty stretches of wet sand. Strange shells, sand fleas and driftwood strewn about were more conspicuous than the signs of human habitation.

The hay-making crew had been about its business all day long, pitching till the wagon groaned. Soon they would come looking for us on the road that ran between the ocean and the bay and help us climb on top. Until then the untamed sea was ours, gray or green or blue, tempestuous or peaceful as its fickle mood dictated. Winds blew inland, scattering spray, flattening grasses in its path.

The little wave or breeze, with faintest mockery, touched us gently; and, in a moment, tore away defiant, wild and free, unconcerned and still uncaptured.

Summer's End

September came, and, with its coming, I grew lonesome. Children in the clearing went to school. My school was eighty miles away. Neither flesh nor fish nor fowl, I idly walked the roads, enjoying with mixed feelings the sight of other children plodding off with sullen looks and heavily-laden book bags.

What was there for a solitary child to do? Daily I helped Aunt Ida carry down some produce from the larger garden "up lots" across the railroad tracks. As usual her blanched sun bonnet slanted at a foolish angle. Gold-rimmed spectacles sat far down upon her nose. Her wide-checked apron gathered to one side, held lettuce, carrots, greens. We made a most unusual pair—the city child, the country grandma: she, looking backward; I, seeing but the future. Yet, we shared much together. The years between us did not seem to matter. Each of us loved fields and woods and things just as they grew, without much cultivation. Each for the other pulled the well-rope and lowered the bars at the entrance to the pasture. Down in the tiny circular cellar built beneath the house, we tapped the barrel of salt pork for the choicest pieces and selected jars of homemade pickles. In the parlor, she told me over and over again where each shell on the corner what-not had been gathered and how the great glass lobster balls for nets were used. Across the room, the organ with its fascinating rows of stops and keys posed in solemn dignity. In its carved music rack, someone long ago had left a set of ancient hymn books. Aunt Ida stood beside the organ and I picked out the simple notes and pumped the carpet-covered pedals with my feet. "Vox Humana" set the notes to quivering; "Dulcet" made the music whisper. With her voice high and cracking but persistent, and mine very, very young, we sang together, bringing back to life the songs of many generations, half-forgotten even then.

"…The sweet little church in the wildwood,
The dear little church in the vale…"

October was approaching. We were leaving. There was the little matter of an appointment with the train that must be kept. The bags were in the carriage standing in the yard. We wore our city clothes. A hurried pat for Tommy Cat sitting on his barrel; one last friendly brush of Roddie's tail; Aunt Ida's hug and huge bouquet of zinnias—and we were moving. All the neighbors of the clearing stood at their doors to wave "Good-bye". At the station, there was just time for the hearty handshake and brusque "Godspeed" from our farmer. The saucy train was coming round the bend whistling shrilly that we must be ready, for it would not wait. I lingered but a moment to rub Jerry's star and touch my head against his hairy cheek.

I looked out of the window at our woods and farmhouse as the train sped across the upper fields. For our departure, trees had donned their party robes of red and gold. Winds were singing, little leaves were dancing all along our way. No matter who would ever come to live there or own it, I would always be a part of them, and they, of me.