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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
103
I
could
not
help
turning
to
look
at
Mrs.
Blackett,
close
beside
me.
Her
hands
were
clasped
placidly
in
their
thin
black
woolen
gloves,
and
she
was
looking
at
the
flowery
wayside
as
we
went
slowly
along,
with
a
pleased,
expectant
smile.
I
do
not
think
she
had
heard
a
word
about
the
trees.
“I
just
saw
a
nice
plant
o'
elecampane
growin'
back
there,”
she
said
presently
to
her
daughter.
“I
haven't
got
my
mind
on
herbs
to-day,”
responded
Mrs.
Todd,
in
the
most
matter-of-fact
way.
“I'm
bent
on
seeing
folks,”
and
she
shook
the
reins
again.
I
for
one
had
no
wish
to
hurry,
it
was
so
pleasant
in
the
shady
roads.
The
woods
stood
close
to
the
road
on
the
right;
on
the
left
were
narrow
fields
and
pastures
where
there
were
as
many
acres
of
spruces
and
pines
as
there
were
acres
of
bay
and
juniper
and
huckleberry,
with
a
little
turf
between.
When
I
thought
we
were
in
the
heart
of
the
inland
country,
we
reached
the
top
of
a
hill,
and
suddenly
there
lay
spread
out
before
us
a
wonderful
great
view
of
well-cleared
fields
that
swept
down
to
the
wide
water
of
a
bay.
Beyond
this
were
distant
shores
like
another
country
in
the
midday
haze
which
half
hid
the
hills
beyond,
and
the
faraway
pale
blue
mountains
on
the
northern
horizon.
There
was
a
schooner
with
all
sails
set
coming
down
the
bay
from
a
white
village
that
was
sprinkled
on
the
shore,
and
there
were
many
sailboats
flitting
about
it.
It
was
a
noble
landscape,
and
my
eyes,
which
had
grown
used
to
the
narrow
inspection
of
a
shaded
roadside,
could
hardly
take
it
in.
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