The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📕

she don’t,” answered Mrs. Todd impatiently. “I ain’t one that’s ord’narily mistaken about family likenesses, and she didn’t seem to meet with friends, so I went square up to her. ‘I expect you’re a Bowden by your looks,’ says I. ‘Yes, I can take it you’re one o’ the Bowdens.’ ‘Lor’, no,’ says she. ‘Dennett was my maiden name, but I married a Bowden for my first husband. I thought I’d come an’ just see what was a-goin’ on!”

Mrs. Blackett laughed heartily. “I’m goin’ to remember to tell William o’ that,” she said. “There, Almiry, the only thing that’s troubled me all this day is to think how William would have enjoyed it. I do so wish William had been there.”

“I sort of wish he had, myself,” said Mrs. Todd frankly.

“There wa’n’t many old folks there, somehow,” said Mrs. Blackett, with a touch of sadness in her voice. “There ain’t so many to come as there used to be, I’m aware, but I expected to see more.”

“I thought they turned out pretty well, when you come to think of it; why, everybody was sayin’ so an’ feelin’ gratified,” answered Mrs. Todd hastily with pleasing unconsciousness; then I saw the quick color flash into her cheek, and presently she made some excuse to turn and steal an anxious look at her mother. Mrs. Blackett was smiling and thinking about her happy day, though she began to look a little tired. Neither of my companions was troubled by her burden of years. I hoped in my heart that I might be like them as I lived on into age, and then smiled to think that I too was no longer very young. So we always keep the same hearts, though our outer framework fails and shows the touch of time.

“ ’Twas pretty when they sang the hymn, wasn’t it?” asked Mrs. Blackett at suppertime, with real enthusiasm. “There was such a plenty o’ men’s voices; where I sat it did sound beautiful. I had to stop and listen when they came to the last verse.”

I saw that Mrs. Todd’s broad shoulders began to shake. “There was good singers there; yes, there was excellent singers,” she agreed heartily, putting down her teacup, “but I chanced to drift alongside Mis’ Peter Bowden o’ Great Bay, an’ I couldn’t help thinkin’ if she was as far out o’ town as she was out o’ tune, she wouldn’t get back in a day.”

XX Along Shore

One day as I went along the shore beyond the old wharves and the newer, high-stepped fabric of the steamer landing, I saw that all the boats were beached, and the slack water period of the early afternoon prevailed. Nothing was going on, not even the most leisurely of occupations, like baiting trawls or mending nets, or repairing lobster pots; the very boats seemed to be taking an afternoon nap in the sun. I could hardly discover a distant sail as I looked seaward, except a weather-beaten lobster smack, which seemed to have been taken for a plaything by the light airs that blew about the bay. It drifted and turned about so aimlessly in the wide reach off Burnt Island, that I suspected there was nobody at the wheel, or that she might have parted her rusty anchor chain while all the crew were asleep.

I watched her for a minute or two; she was the old Miranda, owned by some of the Caplins, and I knew her by an odd shaped patch of newish duck that was set into the peak of her dingy mainsail. Her vagaries offered such an exciting subject for conversation that my heart rejoiced at the sound of a hoarse voice behind me. At that moment, before I had time to answer, I saw something large and shapeless flung from the Miranda’s deck that splashed the water high against her black side, and my companion gave a satisfied chuckle. The old lobster smack’s sail caught the breeze again at this moment, and she moved off down the bay. Turning, I found old Elijah Tilley, who had come softly out of his dark fish-house, as if it were a burrow.

“Boy got kind o’ drowsy steerin’ of her; Monroe he hove him right overboard; ’wake now fast enough,” explained Mr. Tilley, and we laughed together.

I was delighted, for my part, that the vicissitudes and dangers of the Miranda, in a rocky channel, should have given me this opportunity to make acquaintance with an old fisherman to whom I had never spoken. At first he had seemed to be one of those evasive and uncomfortable persons who are so suspicious of you that they make you almost suspicious of yourself. Mr. Elijah Tilley appeared to regard a stranger with scornful indifference. You might see him standing on the pebble beach or in a fish-house doorway, but when you came nearer he was gone. He was one of the small company of elderly, gaunt-shaped great fisherman whom I used to like to see leading up a deep-laden boat by the head, as if it were a horse, from the water’s edge to the steep slope of the pebble beach. There were four of these large old men at the Landing, who were the survivors of an earlier and more vigorous generation. There was an alliance and understanding between them, so close that it was apparently speechless. They gave much time to watching one another’s boats go out or come in; they lent a ready hand at tending one another’s lobster traps in rough weather; they helped to clean the fish or to sliver porgies for the trawls, as if they were in close partnership; and when a boat came in from deep-sea fishing they were never too far out of the way, and hastened to help carry it ashore, two by two, splashing alongside, or holding its steady head, as if it were a willful sea colt. As a matter of fact no boat could help being steady and way-wise under their instant direction and companionship.