Queer Judson by Joseph C. Lincoln — Read

The day was clear and sunshiny. There was a light breeze blowing from the southwest, a breeze which, although bringing with it more than a hint of the coming summer, had still in it a tang of coolness invigorating and salty. Carey's thin nose sniffed it with zest and his stride quickened as he moved down the road leading from Lookout Hill toward the shore. The road was deserted. Smoke arose from kitchen chimneys of the houses he passed, indicating that breakfasts were in process of preparation, but the shades in the front portions of those houses were still drawn tightly to the sills. Over the dozing village hung the stillness of Sunday morning, a stillness which belonged to it and was a part of every Sunday he could remember.

He walked along the main road for a short distance, then, turning to the right, swung over the cedar rail fence bordering the field beyond the Methodist church and took the path "across lots" which led directly to the beach. The path climbed a little hill and, winding through a thicket of cedar and white birch, continued along the top of the dyke separating Eben Crosby's cranberry swamp from Cahoon's pond, the little sheet of water where, as a boy, he had navigated the first rowboat he ever owned. The water of the pond was blue and upon its slightly rumpled surface floated a party of his friends, the gulls, enjoying the luxury of a fresh water bath. Beyond the dyke the path entered a grove of pines and, emerging from these, came out at the top of the first of the row of sand dunes bordering the bay.