At Martin’s Point I am chagrined to find that someone has built a little summer shack - I had always hoped that this would remain a wild spot - The farm across the creek never obtruded what poignant nostalgic thoughts this place arouses - the early days of my marriage, and my first trips to this wildly beautiful spot.
Climb the steep bank here. A chore to my rusty muscles. I am gasping & wringing wet by the time I reach the top; and for part of the way-back, I am trembling from the exertion. Pick a bouquet of fringed polygala.
The prospect from the cliff, looking westward is hauntingly beautiful- the sun is back of a thin dappled cloud, near the edge, and its misty light can be seen slowly sweeping across from the west.
     When I got to the road I had my “second wind” as the saying goes, and felt a keen pleasure in striding energetically up the hilly road, toward the car.
     I picked a bouquet of large violets by the roadside, and then mixed them with the polygala, to make a bouquet for Bertha.
     Driving home in the level sunshine, a blissful contentment flowed through me. The newly cultivated fields, broken by bands of bright green verdure had an elysian look, or as the world might look after the “Flood” was only a memory; as tho a field-worker might say to his family: “Remember last year at this time we were on the ark, and there was nothing but water in all directions.”