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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
115
Mrs.
Caplin
looked
bewildered
and
blank.
“Well,
all
I
know
is,
last
year
he
worked
out
some
kind
of
plan
so's
to
parade
the
county
conference
in
platoons,
and
got
'em
all
flustered
up
tryin'
to
sense
his
ideas
of
a
holler
square,”
she
burst
forth.
“They
was
holler
enough
anyway
after
ridin'
'way
down
from
up
country
into
the
salt
air,
and
they'd
been
treated
to
a
sermon
on
faith
an'
works
from
old
Fayther
Harlow
that
never
knows
when
to
cease.
'Twa'n't
no
time
for
tactics
then,--they
wa'n't
a'thinkin'
of
the
church
military.
Sant,
he
couldn't
do
nothin'
with
'em.
All
he
thinks
of,
when
he
sees
a
crowd,
is
how
to
march
'em.
'Tis
all
very
well
when
he
don't
'tempt
too
much.
He
never
did
act
like
other
folks.”
“Ain't
I
just
been
maintainin'
that
he
ain't
like
'em?”
urged
Mrs.
Todd
decidedly.
“Strange
folks
has
got
to
have
strange
ways,
for
what
I
see.”
“Somebody
observed
once
that
you
could
pick
out
the
likeness
of
'most
every
sort
of
a
foreigner
when
you
looked
about
you
in
our
parish,”
said
Sister
Caplin,
her
face
brightening
with
sudden
illumination.
“I
didn't
see
the
bearin'
of
it
then
quite
so
plain.
I
always
did
think
Mari'
Harris
resembled
a
Chinee.”
“Mari'
Harris
was
pretty
as
a
child,
I
remember,”
said
the
pleasant
voice
of
Mrs.
Blackett,
who,
after
receiving
the
affectionate
greetings
of
nearly
the
whole
company,
came
to
join
us,--to
see,
as
she
insisted,
that
we
were
out
of
mischief.
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