Perpetual Help August 1946 . I went there on a Saturday afternoon a few years back, as I was to say Mass next morning at the little church of St. Joseph for the summer visitors. The pastor assured me there would be no confessions until after supper, so I went for a stroll about the town. Now I've been to many towns in New England and New York and in tropical Puerto Rico, but I still remember Woods Hole as though it were but last week-end that I were there. People seem almost to walk on tiptoe.
Children patter softly on bare feet.
Down at the wharves you'll see old salts mending their nets in silence like monks bending over their rosaries. Even the seagulls. And on nearby cottages pink roses go quietly about their business of rambling up shingled walls and half-way over the lowg piched roofs. You may hear occasional voices at Sam Cohoon's Market where people buy black lobsters and quohoags and all sorts of sea-food caught fresh that morning, but the voices are always subdued. In short, except for the train that bustles down from Boston twice daily, and the tootle of the boat from Martha's Vineyard that comes to meet it, there is no noise to speak of at all.