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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
106
IT
IS
VERY
RARE
in
country
life,
where
high
days
and
holidays
are
few,
that
any
occasion
of
general
interest
proves
to
be
less
than
great.
Such
is
the
hidden
fire
of
enthusiasm
in
the
New
England
nature
that,
once
given
an
outlet,
it
shines
forth
with
almost
volcanic
light
and
heat.
In
quiet
neighborhoods
such
inward
force
does
not
waste
itself
upon
those
petty
excitements
of
every
day
that
belong
to
cities,
but
when,
at
long
intervals,
the
altars
to
patriotism,
to
friendship,
to
the
ties
of
kindred,
are
reared
in
our
familiar
fields,
then
the
fires
glow,
the
flames
come
up
as
if
from
the
inexhaustible
burning
heart
of
the
earth;
the
primal
fires
break
through
the
granite
dust
in
which
our
souls
are
set.
Each
heart
is
warm
and
every
face
shines
with
the
ancient
light.
Such
a
day
as
this
has
transfiguring
powers,
and
easily
makes
friends
of
those
who
have
been
cold-hearted,
and
gives
to
those
who
are
dumb
their
chance
to
speak,
and
lends
some
beauty
to
the
plainest
face.
“Oh,
I
expect
I
shall
meet
friends
today
that
I
haven't
seen
in
a
long
while,”
said
Mrs.
Blackett
with
deep
satisfaction.
“'Twill
bring
out
a
good
many
of
the
old
folks,
'tis
such
a
lovely
day.
I'm
always
glad
not
to
have
them
disappointed.”
“I
guess
likely
the
best
of
'em'll
be
there,”
answered
Mrs.
Todd
with
gentle
humor,
stealing
a
glance
at
me.
“There's
one
thing
certain:
there's
nothing
takes
in
this
whole
neighborhood
like
anything
related
to
the
Bowdens.
Yes,
I
do
feel
that
when
you
call
upon
the
Bowdens
you
may
expect
most
families
to
rise
up
between
the
Landing
and
the
far
end
of
the
Back
Cove.
Those
that
aren't
kin
by
blood
are
kin
by
marriage.”
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