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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
111
There
was
a
wide
path
mowed
for
us
across
the
field,
and,
as
we
moved
along,
the
birds
flew
up
out
of
the
thick
second
crop
of
clover,
and
the
bees
hummed
as
if
it
still
were
June.
There
was
a
flashing
of
white
gulls
over
the
water
where
the
fleet
of
boats
rode
the
low
waves
together
in
the
cove,
swaying
their
small
masts
as
if
they
kept
time
to
our
steps.
The
plash
of
the
water
could
be
heard
faintly,
yet
still
be
heard;
we
might
have
been
a
company
of
ancient
Greeks
going
to
celebrate
a
victory,
or
to
worship
the
god
of
harvests,
in
the
grove
above.
It
was
strangely
moving
to
see
this
and
to
make
part
of
it.
The
sky,
the
sea,
have
watched
poor
humanity
at
its
rites
so
long;
we
were
no
more
a
New
England
family
celebrating
its
own
existence
and
simple
progress;
we
carried
the
tokens
and
inheritance
of
all
such
households
from
which
this
had
descended,
and
were
only
the
latest
of
our
line.
We
possessed
the
instincts
of
a
far,
forgotten
childhood;
I
found
myself
thinking
that
we
ought
to
be
carrying
green
branches
and
singing
as
we
went.
So
we
came
to
the
thick
shaded
grove
still
silent,
and
were
set
in
our
places
by
the
straight
trees
that
swayed
together
and
let
sunshine
through
here
and
there
like
a
single
golden
leaf
that
flickered
down,
vanishing
in
the
cool
shade.
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