anted that the
lady--or the man either--can read. Well-worn the Bibles are, however,
and we need not think that lack of learning prevented any of the
Pilgrims from imbibing both the letter and spirit of the Book. Those who
could write were masters of a fine, flowing script that shames our
modern scrawl, as is well testified by the Patent of the Plymouth
Colony--the oldest state document in New England--as well as by the
final will and various deeds of Peregrine White, and many others. The
small, stiff baby shoes which encased the infant feet of Josiah
Winslow, the son of Governor Winslow and destined to be Governor
himself, are of a pattern familiar to our man and maid, as are the now
tarnished swords of Carver, Brewster, and Standish. Probably they have
puzzled, as we are still doing, over the Kufic or Arabic inscriptions on
the last. The monster kettle and generous pewter plate brought over by
the doughty Captain would be too well known to them to attract their
attention, as would be the various tankards and goblets, and the
beautiful mortar and pestle brought over by Winslow. But the two-tined
fork they would regard with curiosity, for forks were not used, even in
England, until 1650. The teapots, too, which look antiquated enough to
us, would fill them with wonder, for tea was practically unknown in both
colony and mother country until 1657. Those fragments of rude
agricultural implements which we treasure would not interest our man and
maid for whom they are ordinary sights, and neither would they regard
with the same historical interest that moves us the bits of stone from
the Scrooby Manor in England, the bricks from the old pier at Delft
Haven in Holland, or the piece of carved pew-back from the old church at
Scrooby. Possibly our Pilgrim maid is one of the few who can write, and
if so, her fingers have doubtless fashioned a sampler as exquisite as
that of Lora Standish, whose meek docility and patient workmanship are
forever preserved in her cross-stitched words.

From all around the walls of Pilgrim Hall look down fine, stern old
portraits, real and imaginary, of the early colonists. Modern critics
may bicker over the authenticity of the white bull on which Priscilla
Alden is taking her wedding trip; they may quarrel over the fidelity of
the models and paintings of the Mayflower, and antiquarians may
diligently unearth bits of bone to substantiate their pet theories. Our
man and maid could tell us all, but, al