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

looked strangely modern for its owner. I should have much sooner believed that the smart young wholesale egg merchant of the Landing was its occupant than Mr. Tilley, since a man’s house is really but his larger body, and expresses in a way his nature and character.

I went up the field, following the smooth little path to the side door. As for using the front door, that was a matter of great ceremony; the long grass grew close against the high stone step, and a snowberry bush leaned over it, top-heavy with the weight of a morning-glory vine that had managed to take what the fishermen might call a half hitch about the doorknob. Elijah Tilley came to the side door to receive me; he was knitting a blue yarn stocking without looking on, and was warmly dressed for the season in a thick blue flannel shirt with white crockery buttons, a faded waistcoat and trousers heavily patched at the knees. These were not his fishing clothes. There was something delightful in the grasp of his hand, warm and clean, as if it never touched anything but the comfortable woolen yarn, instead of cold sea water and slippery fish.

“What are the painted stakes for, down in the field?” I hastened to ask, and he came out a step or two along the path to see; and looked at the stakes as if his attention were called to them for the first time.

“Folks laughed at me when I first bought this place an’ come here to live,” he explained. “They said ’twa’n’t no kind of a field privilege at all; no place to raise anything, all full o’ stones. I was aware ’twas good land, an’ I worked some on it⁠—odd times when I didn’t have nothin’ else on hand⁠—till I cleared them loose stones all out. You never see a prettier piece than ’tis now; now did ye? Well, as for them painted marks, them’s my buoys. I struck on to some heavy rocks that didn’t show none, but a plow’d be liable to ground on ’em, an’ so I ketched holt an’ buoyed ’em same’s you see. They don’t trouble me no more’n if they wa’n’t there.”

“You haven’t been to sea for nothing,” I said laughing.

“One trade helps another,” said Elijah with an amiable smile. “Come right in an’ set down. Come in an’ rest ye,” he exclaimed, and led the way into his comfortable kitchen. The sunshine poured in at the two further windows, and a cat was curled up sound asleep on the table that stood between them. There was a new-looking light oilcloth of a tiled pattern on the floor, and a crockery teapot, large for a household of only one person, stood on the bright stove. I ventured to say that somebody must be a very good housekeeper.

“That’s me,” acknowledged the old fisherman with frankness. “There ain’t nobody here but me. I try to keep things looking right, same’s poor dear left ’em. You set down here in this chair, then you can look off an’ see the water. None on ’em thought I was goin’ to get along alone, no way, but I wa’n’t goin’ to have my house turned upsi’ down an’ all changed about; no, not to please nobody. I was the only one knew just how she liked to have things set, poor dear, an’ I said I was goin’ to make shift, and I have made shift. I’d rather tough it out alone.” And he sighed heavily, as if to sigh were his familiar consolation.

We were both silent for a minute; the old man looked out the window, as if he had forgotten I was there.

“You must miss her very much?” I said at last.

“I do miss her,” he answered, and sighed again. “Folks all kep’ repeatin’ that time would ease me, but I can’t find it does. No, I miss her just the same every day.”

“How long is it since she died?” I asked.

“Eight year now, come the first of October. It don’t seem near so long. I’ve got a sister that comes and stops ’long o’ me a little spell, spring an’ fall, an’ odd times if I send after her. I ain’t near so good a hand to sew as I be to knit, and she’s very quick to set everything to rights. She’s a married woman with a family; her son’s folks lives at home, an’ I can’t make no great claim on her time. But it makes me a kind o’ good excuse, when I do send, to help her a little; she ain’t none too well off. Poor dear always liked her, and we used to contrive our ways together. ’Tis full as easy to be alone. I set here an’ think it all over, an’ think considerable when the weather’s bad to go outside. I get so some days it feels as if poor dear might step right back into this kitchen. I keep a-watchin’ them doors as if she might step in to ary one. Yes, ma’am, I keep a-lookin’ off an’ droppin’ o’ my stitches; that’s just how it seems. I can’t git over losin’ of her no way nor no how. Yes, ma’am, that’s just how it seems to me.”

I did not say anything, and he did not look up.

“I git feelin’ so sometimes I have to lay everything by an’ go out door. She was a sweet pretty creatur’ long’s she lived,” the old man added mournfully. “There’s that little rockin’ chair o’ her’n, I set an’ notice it an’ think how strange ’tis a creatur’ like her should be gone an’ that chair be here right in its old place.”

“I wish I had known her; Mrs. Todd told me about your wife one day,” I said.

“You’d have liked to come and see her; all the folks did,” said poor Elijah. “She’d been so pleased to hear everything and see somebody new that took such an int’rest. She had a kind