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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
114
“They
used
to
say
in
old
times,”
said
Mrs.
Todd
modestly,
“that
our
family
came
of
very
high
folks
in
France,
and
one
of
'em
was
a
great
general
in
some
o'
the
old
wars.
I
sometimes
think
that
Santin's
ability
has
come
'way
down
from
then.
'Tain't
nothin'
he's
ever
acquired;
'twas
born
in
him.
I
don't
know's
he
ever
saw
a
fine
parade,
or
met
with
those
that
studied
up
such
things.
He's
figured
it
all
out
an'
got
his
papers
so
he
knows
how
to
aim
a
cannon
right
for
William's
fish-house
five
miles
out
on
Green
Island,
or
up
there
on
Burnt
Island
where
the
signal
is.
He
had
it
all
over
to
me
one
day,
an'
I
tried
hard
to
appear
interested.
His
life's
all
in
it,
but
he
will
have
those
poor
gloomy
spells
come
over
him
now
an'
then,
an'
then
he
has
to
drink.”
Mrs.
Caplin
gave
a
heavy
sigh.
“There's
a
great
many
such
strayaway
folks,
just
as
there
is
plants,”
continued
Mrs.
Todd,
who
was
nothing
if
not
botanical.
“I
know
of
just
one
sprig
of
laurel
that
grows
over
back
here
in
a
wild
spot,
an'
I
never
could
hear
of
no
other
on
this
coast.
I
had
a
large
bunch
brought
me
once
from
Massachusetts
way,
so
I
know
it.
This
piece
grows
in
an
open
spot
where
you'd
think
'twould
do
well,
but
it's
sort
o'
poor-lookin'.
I've
visited
it
time
an'
again,
just
to
notice
its
poor
blooms.
'Tis
a
real
Sant
Bowden,
out
of
its
own
place.”
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