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

for William, I never should have housed that other dronin’ old thing so long; but he sets by her on account of her havin’ a bob tail. I don’t deem it advisable to maintain cats just on account of their havin’ bob tails; they’re like all other curiosities, good for them that wants to see ’m twice. This kitten catches mice for both, an’ keeps me respectable as I ain’t been for a year. She’s a real understandin’ little help, this kitten is. I picked her from among five Miss Augusta Pernell had over to Burnt Island,” said the old woman, trudging along with the kitten close at her skirts. “Augusta, she says to me, ‘Why, Mis’ Blackett, you’ve took and homeliest;’ and, says I, ‘I’ve got the smartest; I’m satisfied.’ ”

“I’d trust nobody sooner’n you to pick out a kitten, mother,” said the daughter handsomely, and we went on in peace and harmony.

The house was just before us now, on a green level that looked as if a huge hand had scooped it out of the long green field we had been ascending. A little way above, the dark, spruce woods began to climb the top of the hill and cover the seaward slopes of the island. There was just room for the small farm and the forest; we looked down at the fish-house and its rough sheds, and the weirs stretching far out into the water. As we looked upward, the tops of the firs came sharp against the blue sky. There was a great stretch of rough pastureland round the shoulder of the island to the eastward, and here were all the thick-scattered gray rocks that kept their places, and the gray backs of many sheep that forever wandered and fed on the thin sweet pasturage that fringed the ledges and made soft hollows and strips of green turf like growing velvet. I could see the rich green of bayberry bushes here and there, where the rocks made room. The air was very sweet; one could not help wishing to be a citizen of such a complete and tiny continent and home of fisherfolk.

The house was broad and clean, with a roof that looked heavy on its low walls. It was one of the houses that seem firm-rooted in the ground, as if they were two-thirds below the surface, like icebergs. The front door stood hospitably open in expectation of company, and an orderly vine grew at each side; but our path led to the kitchen door at the house-end, and there grew a mass of gay flowers and greenery, as if they had been swept together by some diligent garden broom into a tangled heap: there were portulacas all along under the lower step and straggling off into the grass, and clustering mallows that crept as near as they dared, like poor relations. I saw the bright eyes and brainless little heads of two half-grown chickens who were snuggled down among the mallows as if they had been chased away from the door more than once, and expected to be again.

“It seems kind o’ formal comin’ in this way,” said Mrs. Todd impulsively, as we passed the flowers and came to the front doorstep; but she was mindful of the proprieties, and walked before us into the best room on the left.

“Why, mother, if you haven’t gone an’ turned the carpet!” she exclaimed, with something in her voice that spoke of awe and admiration. “When’d you get to it? I s’pose Mis’ Addicks come over an’ helped you, from White Island Landing?”

“No, she didn’t,” answered the old woman, standing proudly erect, and making the most of a great moment. “I done it all myself with William’s help. He had a spare day, an’ took right holt with me; an’ ’twas all well beat on the grass, an’ turned, an’ put down again afore we went to bed. I ripped an’ sewed over two o’ them long breadths. I ain’t had such a good night’s sleep for two years.”

“There, what do you think o’ havin’ such a mother as that for eighty-six year old?” said Mrs. Todd, standing before us like a large figure of Victory.

As for the mother, she took on a sudden look of youth; you felt as if she promised a great future, and was beginning, not ending, her summers and their happy toils.

“My, my!” exclaimed Mrs. Todd. “I couldn’t ha’ done it myself, I’ve got to own it.”

“I was much pleased to have it off my mind,” said Mrs. Blackett, humbly; “the more so because along at the first of the next week I wasn’t very well. I suppose it may have been the change of weather.”

Mrs. Todd could not resist a significant glance at me, but, with charming sympathy, she forbore to point the lesson or to connect this illness with its apparent cause. She loomed larger than ever in the little old-fashioned best room, with its few pieces of good furniture and pictures of national interest. The green paper curtains were stamped with conventional landscapes of a foreign order⁠—castles on inaccessible crags, and lovely lakes with steep wooded shores; underfoot the treasured carpet was covered thick with homemade rugs. There were empty glass lamps and crystallized bouquets of grass and some fine shells on the narrow mantelpiece.

“I was married in this room,” said Mrs. Todd unexpectedly; and I heard her give a sigh after she had spoken, as if she could not help the touch of regret that would forever come with all her thoughts of happiness.

“We stood right there between the windows,” she added, “and the minister stood here. William wouldn’t come in. He was always odd about seein’ folks, just’s he is now. I run to meet ’em from a child, an’ William, he’d take an’ run away.”

“I’ve been the gainer,” said the old mother cheerfully. “William has been son an’ daughter both since you was married off the island. He’s been ’most too satisfied to stop at home ’long o’ his old mother, but I