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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
102
“I
seem
to
see
the
family
looks,”
said
Mrs.
Blackett.
“I
wish
we'd
asked
her
name.
She's
a
stranger,
and
I
want
to
help
make
it
pleasant
for
all
such.”
“She
resembles
Cousin
Pa'lina
Bowden
about
the
forehead,”
said
Mrs.
Todd
with
decision.
We
had
just
passed
a
piece
of
woodland
that
shaded
the
road,
and
come
out
to
some
open
fields
beyond,
when
Mrs.
Todd
suddenly
reined
in
the
horse
as
if
somebody
had
stood
on
the
roadside
and
stopped
her.
She
even
gave
that
quick
reassuring
nod
of
her
head
which
was
usually
made
to
answer
for
a
bow,
but
I
discovered
that
she
was
looking
eagerly
at
a
tall
ash-tree
that
grew
just
inside
the
field
fence.
“I
thought
'twas
goin'
to
do
well,”
she
said
complacently
as
we
went
on
again.
“Last
time
I
was
up
this
way
that
tree
was
kind
of
drooping
and
discouraged.
Grown
trees
act
that
way
sometimes,
same's
folks;
then
they'll
put
right
to
it
and
strike
their
roots
off
into
new
ground
and
start
all
over
again
with
real
good
courage.
Ash-trees
is
very
likely
to
have
poor
spells;
they
ain't
got
the
resolution
of
other
trees.”
I
listened
hopefully
for
more;
it
was
this
peculiar
wisdom
that
made
one
value
Mrs.
Todd's
pleasant
company.
“There's
sometimes
a
good
hearty
tree
growin'
right
out
of
the
bare
rock,
out
o'
some
crack
that
just
holds
the
roots;”
she
went
on
to
say,
“right
on
the
pitch
o'
one
o'
them
bare
stony
hills
where
you
can't
seem
to
see
a
wheel-barrowful
o'
good
earth
in
a
place,
but
that
tree'll
keep
a
green
top
in
the
driest
summer.
You
lay
your
ear
down
to
the
ground
an'
you'll
hear
a
little
stream
runnin'.
Every
such
tree
has
got
its
own
livin'
spring;
there's
folk
made
to
match
'em.”
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