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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
108
“Oh,
ain't
it
beautiful!”
said
Mrs.
Blackett,
with
all
the
delight
of
a
girl.
She
stood
up
in
the
high
wagon
to
see
everything,
and
when
she
sat
down
again
she
took
fast
hold
of
my
hand.
“Hadn't
you
better
urge
the
horse
a
little,
Almiry?”
she
asked.
“He's
had
it
easy
as
we
came
along,
and
he
can
rest
when
we
get
there.
The
others
are
some
little
ways
ahead,
and
I
don't
want
to
lose
a
minute.”
We
watched
the
boats
drop
their
sails
one
by
one
in
the
cove
as
we
drove
along
the
high
land.
The
old
Bowden
house
stood,
low-storied
and
broad-roofed,
in
its
green
fields
as
if
it
were
a
motherly
brown
hen
waiting
for
the
flock
that
came
straying
toward
it
from
every
direction.
The
first
Bowden
settler
had
made
his
home
there,
and
it
was
still
the
Bowden
farm;
five
generations
of
sailors
and
farmers
and
soldiers
had
been
its
children.
And
presently
Mrs.
Blackett
showed
me
the
stone-walled
burying-ground
that
stood
like
a
little
fort
on
a
knoll
overlooking
the
bay,
but,
as
she
said,
there
were
plenty
of
scattered
Bowdens
who
were
not
laid
there,--some
lost
at
sea,
and
some
out
West,
and
some
who
died
in
the
war;
most
of
the
home
graves
were
those
of
women.
We
could
see
now
that
there
were
different
footpaths
from
along
shore
and
across
country.
In
all
these
there
were
straggling
processions
walking
in
single
file,
like
old
illustrations
of
the
Pilgrim's
Progress.
There
was
a
crowd
about
the
house
as
if
huge
bees
were
swarming
in
the
lilac
bushes.
Beyond
the
fields
and
cove
a
higher
point
of
land
ran
out
into
the
bay,
covered
with
woods
which
must
have
kept
away
much
of
the
northwest
wind
in
winter.
Now
there
was
a
pleasant
look
of
shade
and
shelter
there
for
the
great
family
meeting.
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