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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
100
Whatever
energy
and
spirit
the
white
horse
had
to
begin
with
were
soon
exhausted
by
the
steep
hills
and
his
discernment
of
a
long
expedition
ahead.
We
toiled
slowly
along.
Mrs.
Blackett
and
I
sat
together,
and
Mrs.
Todd
sat
alone
in
front
with
much
majesty
and
the
large
basket
of
provisions.
Part
of
the
way
the
road
was
shaded
by
thick
woods,
but
we
also
passed
one
farmhouse
after
another
on
the
high
uplands,
which
we
all
three
regarded
with
deep
interest,
the
house
itself
and
the
barns
and
garden-spots
and
poultry
all
having
to
suffer
an
inspection
of
the
shrewdest
sort.
This
was
a
highway
quite
new
to
me;
in
fact,
most
of
my
journeys
with
Mrs.
Todd
had
been
made
afoot
and
between
the
roads,
in
open
pasturelands.
My
friends
stopped
several
times
for
brief
dooryard
visits,
and
made
so
many
promises
of
stopping
again
on
the
way
home
that
I
began
to
wonder
how
long
the
expedition
would
last.
I
had
often
noticed
how
warmly
Mrs.
Todd
was
greeted
by
her
friends,
but
it
was
hardly
to
be
compared
with
the
feeling
now
shown
toward
Mrs.
Blackett.
A
look
of
delight
came
to
the
faces
of
those
who
recognized
the
plain,
dear
old
figure
beside
me;
one
revelation
after
another
was
made
of
the
constant
interest
and
intercourse
that
had
linked
the
far
island
and
these
scattered
farms
into
a
golden
chain
of
love
and
dependence.
“Now,
we
mustn't
stop
again
if
we
can
help
it,”
insisted
Mrs.
Todd
at
last.
“You'll
get
tired,
mother,
and
you'll
think
the
less
o'
reunions.
We
can
visit
along
here
any
day.
There,
if
they
ain't
frying
doughnuts
in
this
next
house,
too!
These
are
new
folks,
you
know,
from
over
St.
George
way;
they
took
this
old
Talcot
farm
last
year.
'Tis
the
best
water
on
the
road,
and
the
check-rein's
come
undone--yes,
we'd
best
delay
a
little
and
water
the
horse.”
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