And now let us look in the glass at them once more, on Saturday morning
of the 23d of December.
The little _Mayflower_ lies swinging at her moorings in the harbor, while
every man and boy who could use a tool has gone on shore to cut down and
prepare timber for future houses.
Mary Winslow and Rose Standish are sitting together on deck, fashioning
garments, while little Love Winslow is playing at their feet with such
toys as the new world afforded her--strings of acorns and scarlet holly-
berries and some bird-claws and arrowheads and bright-colored ears of
Indian corn, which Captain Miles Standish has brought home to her from
one of their explorations.
Through the still autumnal air may now and then be heard the voices of
men calling to one another on shore, the quick, sharp ring of axes, and
anon the crash of falling trees, with shouts from juveniles as the great
forest monarch is laid low. Some of the women are busy below, sorting
over and arranging their little household stores and stuff with a view to
moving on shore, and holding domestic consultations with each other.
A sadness hangs over the little company, for since their arrival the
stroke of death has more than once fallen; we find in Bradford's brief
record that by the 24th of December six had died.
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