We saw a hay bail with these feet sticking out. I was reading some of the letters that I had saved from Shryl Hacker who died this Fall and was reminded of what a wonderful writer she had been. And, as we journeyed around that claw last September, every restaurant offered lobster along with delectable shrimp, scallops and just about everything else except Siamese fighting fish. To watch the scallop fleet return may introduce a game for tourists. The small boats flash brilliant colors, and the game is to match up boats with houses along the shore.
Houses receive paint that's left over.
Makes an address easy to locate except when a fisherman has to borrow paint from a neighbor to finish a wall. Scenery changes rapidly as the soaring, dipping, winding road falls behind the bus. Early fall rain curtains the marsh with a warm mist as the sun returns to toast the silvery fur of pussy willow along the dykes. Here comes the wind to funnel up Fundy Bay, to wave acres of grass tops, to waft the scent of wild roses and pine needles, to toss the gulls swarming in when the tides go out. Here, in this province supported by lumber and fishing, here in this sea-haunted land, the pace of past centuries adheres to each day like barnacles to boats.