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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
113
“He
don't
often
have
such
a
chance
to
show
off
his
gifts,”
said
Mrs.
Caplin,
a
friend
from
the
Landing
who
had
joined
us.
“That's
Sant
Bowden;
he
always
takes
the
lead,
such
days.
Good
for
nothing
else
most
o'
his
time;
trouble
is,
he”--
I
turned
with
interest
to
hear
the
worst.
Mrs.
Caplin's
tone
was
both
zealous
and
impressive.
“Stim'lates,”
she
explained
scornfully.
“No,
Santin
never
was
in
the
war,”
said
Mrs.
Todd
with
lofty
indifference.
“It
was
a
cause
of
real
distress
to
him.
He
kep'
enlistin',
and
traveled
far
an'
wide
about
here,
an'
even
took
the
bo't
and
went
to
Boston
to
volunteer;
but
he
ain't
a
sound
man,
an'
they
wouldn't
have
him.
They
say
he
knows
all
their
tactics,
an'
can
tell
all
about
the
battle
o'
Waterloo
well's
he
can
Bunker
Hill.
I
told
him
once
the
country'd
lost
a
great
general,
an'
I
meant
it,
too.”
“I
expect
you're
near
right,”
said
Mrs.
Caplin,
a
little
crestfallen
and
apologetic.
“I
be
right,”
insisted
Mrs.
Todd
with
much
amiability.
“'Twas
most
too
bad
to
cramp
him
down
to
his
peaceful
trade,
but
he's
a
most
excellent
shoemaker
at
his
best,
an'
he
always
says
it's
a
trade
that
gives
him
time
to
think
an'
plan
his
maneuvers.
Over
to
the
Port
they
always
invite
him
to
march
Decoration
Day,
same
as
the
rest,
an'
he
does
look
noble;
he
comes
of
soldier
stock.”
I
had
been
noticing
with
great
interest
the
curiously
French
type
of
face
which
prevailed
in
this
rustic
company.
I
had
said
to
myself
before
that
Mrs.
Blackett
was
plainly
of
French
descent,
in
both
her
appearance
and
her
charming
gifts,
but
this
is
not
surprising
when
one
has
learned
how
large
a
proportion
of
the
early
settlers
on
this
northern
coast
of
New
England
were
of
Huguenot
blood,
and
that
it
is
the
Norman
Englishman,
not
the
Saxon,
who
goes
adventuring
to
a
new
world.
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