“Just the place!” declared Mr. Freeman; “and here’s a good piece of greensward in the shade for Lady,” and he turned into a little grassy field beyond the bridge where a big beech tree stood, making a grateful circle of shade.
“Lady must have a couple of hours’ rest,” said Mr. Freeman, “so you girls can go down to the beach or do whatever you like until you are ready for luncheon.”
The girls took off their shoes and stockings and ran down to the water’s edge, and were soon wading about enjoying the cool water. After a little while they tired of wading and went up on the dry warm sand. Patches of bayberry bushes grew near the shore, and their fragrant leaves and small gray berries at once attracted Rose’s attention. She had never before seen this shrub, a species of myrtle, and Anne was delighted to find something that she could tell the elder girl.
“It’s bayberry, Rose. Just rub the leaves between your fingers and see how sweet it smells,” she said. “Aunt Martha makes candles of these little green berries, and likes them better than tallow candles. When you snuff them out they make all the room smell just like this,” and Anne held the bruised leaves up for Rose to smell.
“I don’t see how candles could be made of these little berries,” said Rose.
“And Aunt Martha makes a fine salve from them, too,” continued Anne. “When she makes the candles I gather the berries, quarts and quarts, and she boils them in a kettle, and then skims off the top, and boils it again, and then turns it into the molds.”
“Come to luncheon, girls!” called Mr. Freeman, and they ran back to the grassy field and the shade of the beech tree. On one side Lady was nibbling her oats happily. The lunch basket stood open; Mr. Freeman handed Rose a small tin drinking cup, and the girls ran down to the brook for a drink of the clear water.
“Cape Cod twists about Massachusetts Bay like a long arm, doesn’t it, father?” said Rose, as they all seated themselves around the lunch basket.
Mr. Freeman laughed at Rose’s description of the Cape, but nodded his head in agreement.
“I believe it does, my dear,” he answered. “Province Town is the hand curved in, and Truro the wrist; Chatham must be the elbow, and now we are getting pretty well up to the shoulder.”