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 seashore. 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
passed 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 noble 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.
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