To Pigeon Cove's Pasture Road

It was a sparkling Sunday afternoon for a slippery walk in a Rockport town. The wife and I and boxer Molly started walking on Granite Street at the foot of Rowe Square--and bumped right into the sight of bird feeders on a tree in the John Chambers yard on Granite Street, where feathered friends were having a feed.

Up Rowe Avenue we skidded past another of those wrought iron fences with spikes and U-shaped rods. On Pasture Road's sleek slabs of ice even Molly's four feet floundered. On a door window was a sort of damask pattern reminiscent of vivid decorations of another age. 'Tis the little differences in exterior decor that give Rockport individuality that attracts the natives and near-natives as much as the brand-newcomers.

We were now on a road parallel to Granite Street and the broad open sea, before us a spectacular view of the Atlantic in quiet calm, spotted by small lobster boats. We were walking on ice, to my dismay, for rubbers fail to assure me equilibrium. I was reminded of a horrible hike along the terminal moraine of Dogtown Common that my good friends, the 'Squam mountain goats inveigled me into one frigid winter's day. They did fine, got a book out of it all; all I got was frayed pants and hush-hush bruises.

The Rockport skyline from this geographic shelf was spectacular and brought a new warmth for this town of towns. We ran into one of those real old low stone walls that bordered the farms of the past, behind which as the poet said, the embattled farmers took potshots at the retreating Redcoats.

Bob Cranston's brand new home wore Christmas decorations and a doggy likeness with lantern on a signpost. Outside was his Tina, a boxer like ours. Mollie was on a leash, though, and Tina never paid even a whisper of attention.

Old stone posts, a sailboat in a yard, a doghouse in the distance, contributed to a pastoral scene of a seaport village. Snow lined the trees to build up the effect. We were again in the heart of Pigeon Cove, which offers many a wintry walk with its lanes and coves, its byways and fetching homes. Parts were like Christmas land with snow-covered fir trees seeming eager for the gay baubles, cornucopias, candy-filled, gay silver tinsel, and colored bulbs.

Snug little homes were aglitter with snow outlines below us and we took this to be a new approach to the North Village. Here we had a rude awakening. In descendng to Granite Street we collapsed to the horizontal on a glare of ice. We must ask the Cove "mayor," the dean of selectmen, to see that his by-ways are better sanded for visiting strollers.
J.P.C., Jr.