He had an odd, quick way of extracting pleasure from the most ordinary things, flying fish, queer bits of seaweed, the sun when it was cut into a perfect half by the horizon and the water.
Mary Ellen Chase, Mary Peters, 1934

*                *               *

*Crawdads in a creek-bed.  The brothers were busy finding big ones.  I turned over leaves and rocks to catch the tiny ones.  They were light and small, backing across my creek-wet palms, dragging their ineffectual claws.

*The curling green tendrils on the May-pop vine:  tight cork-screws, and wild knots.

*Shoots of the climbing rose — which has nothing to climb — growing up above my head and arching back over nearly to the ground.

*A cat with expectant eyes.

*Mary Ellen Chase, and “pithy quotes” to be set down in the brown-backed journal.   With much thought and little fussiness, her writing is clean, clear, full of light, like a watercolor painting of the ocean, the rugged Maine coast.

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