sea behind it the first light of glorious morning. From Manomet
head to the Gurnet the horizon showed a level sea line of palest
garnet that deepened, moment by moment, till the coming sun arched
it with rose and bounded from it, a flattened globule of ruby
fire. I like to think that the path of gold with which the sun
glorified the stippled steel of the sea was the very one by which
the first Mayflower came in from Provincetown, the sails nobly set
and the ship pressing onward to that memorable anchorage within
the protecting white arm of the sandspit.

I like to think that the sweet curve of the old moon's slender
sail sways in by Manomet each month in loving remembrance of that
other shallop that so magically won by the roar of the breakers on
the dark point and brought the simple record of faith and courage
for our loving remembrance. But whether these things are so or not
I know that the very first rays of the morning sun pass in level
neglect over the bay and the town to lay a wreath of light on the
brow of Burial Hill and touch with celestial gold the simple
granite shaft that stands over the grave of William Bradford,
historian of Plymouth Colony and writer of the first American
book. Such is the unfailing ceremony of sunrise in Plymouth, and
such it has been since the first Pilgrim was laid to rest on the
hill which lifts its head above the roofs and spires to the free
winds of the world.

Plymouth is fortunate in this hill. It bears the very presence of
its founders above the enterprise and ferment of a modern town
which grows rapidly toward city conditions, a hill which is set
upon a city and cannot be hid. Factories and city blocks and all
the wonders of steam and electrical contrivance which would have
astounded and amazed Bradford and his fellows are common in
Plymouth today as they are common to all cities and towns of a
vast country, yet the graves of the simple pioneers rise above
them as the story of their lives transcends in interest that of
all others that have come after them. The book that Bradford
wrote, as the tales that Homer told, will last as long as books
are read. Plymouth may pass, as Troy did, but the story of its
heroes will remain. Bradford's book, which was our first, may
well, at the end of time, be rated our greatest.

The trailing arbutus is peculiarly the flower of Plymouth. Not
that it grows there alone, indeed within easy reach of the landing
place of the Pilgrims it is not