See: 'Homage to
Dunecrest'--written with a blue pencil on a bit of driftwood."
"Sorry _we_ can't leave any souvenir behind," said Cope, who had
stolen up and was looking at the "poem" over Randolph's shoulder. "But one
must (first) be clever; and one must (second) know how to put his
cleverness on record."
"I shall remember _your_ record," she returned with emphasis. Cope
smiled deprecatingly; but he felt sure that he had sung well.
The moonlight, when it came, was all that Medora Phillips had promised.
There was another stroll on the beach, with Cope between Medora and
Carolyn. Then he and Randolph took the causeway across the marsh, stopped
the trolley by burning a newspaper on the track, and started on the long
trip home.
As the car ran along jerkily from station to station, the earlier void of
Duneland became peopled indeed. The extraordinarily mild day had drawn out
hundreds--had given the moribund summer-excursion season a new lease of
life. Every stoppage brought so many more young men in soiled khaki, with
shapeless packs on their backs, and so many more wan maidens, no longer
young, who were trying, in little bands, to capture from Nature the joys
thus far denied by domestic life; and at one station a belated squad of the
"Lovers of Landscape"--some forty or fifty in all--came flooding in with
the day's spoils: masses of asters and goldenrod, with the roots as often
as not; festoons of bittersweet, and sheaves of sumach and golden glow; and
one ardent spirit staggered in under the weight of an immense brown paper
bag stuffed with prickly pear.
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