Two days later, on Saturday, November 21, the Mayflower dropped her anchor in what is now the harbor of Provincetown, and a force of sixteen, "every one his Musket, Sword and Corslet, under the command of Captaine Myles Standish," went ashore to explore. The next day, being Sunday, praise service was held on board, and on the following Monday occurred the first washing-day. THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH [November 23 (N. S.), 1620] "Ho, Rose!" quoth the stout Miles Standish, As he stood on the Mayflower's deck, And gazed on the sandy coast-line That loomed as a misty speck On the edge of the distant offing,-- "See! yonder we have in view Bartholomew Gosnold's 'headlands.' 'Twas in sixteen hundred and two "That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored Just there where the beach is broad, And the merry old captain named it (Half swamped by the fish)--Cape Cod. "And so as his mighty 'headlands' Are scarcely a league away, What say you to landing, sweetheart, And having a washing-day? "For did not the mighty Leader Who guided the chosen band Pause under the peaks of Sinai, And issue his strict command-- "(For even the least assoilment Of Egypt the spirit loathes)-- Or ever they entered Canaan, The people should wash their clothes? "The land we have left is noisome,-- And rank with the smirch of sin; The land that we seek should find us Clean-vestured without and within." "Dear heart"--and the sweet Rose Standish Looked up with a tear in her eye; She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen Where she watched, in the days gone by, Her mother among her maidens (She should watch them no more, alas!), And saw as they stretched the linen To bleach on the Suffolk grass. In a moment her brow was cloudless, As she leaned on the vessel's rail, And thought of the sea-stained garments, Of coif and of farthingale; And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel, The tuckers and homespun gowns, And the piles of the hosen knitted From the wool of the Devon downs. So the matrons aboard the Mayflower Made ready with eager hand To drop from the deck their baskets As soon as the prow touched land. And there did the Pilgrim Mothers, "On a Monday," the record says, Ordain for their new-found England The first of her washing-days. And there did the Pilgrim Fathers, With matchlock and axe well slung, Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles That propt on the crotches hung. For the trail of the startled savage Was over the marshy grass, And the glint of his eyes kept peering Through cedar and sassafras. And the children were mad with pleasure As they gathered the twigs in sheaves, And piled on the fire the fagots, And heaped up the autumn leaves.