Sunday, 8:30 AM. 57 degrees, wind W, light. The channel is crawling slightly, the sky is overcast and the barometer predicts rain, which we have had a trace of. It is very quiet, all God’s creatures sleeping in this morning.
The older needles of the white pines are beginning to turn to gold and will soon fall, creating a golden blanket beneath the trees and prompting many telephone calls asking what ails the pines, when nothing does. Needles usually remain green and on the tree for two years before they are shed.
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