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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
124
At
last
we
were
in
the
high
wagon
again;
the
old
white
horse
had
been
well
fed
in
the
Bowden
barn,
and
we
drove
away
and
soon
began
to
climb
the
long
hill
toward
the
wooded
ridge.
The
road
was
new
to
me,
as
roads
always
are,
going
back.
Most
of
our
companions
had
been
full
of
anxious
thoughts
of
home,--of
the
cows,
or
of
young
children
likely
to
fall
into
disaster,--but
we
had
no
reasons
for
haste,
and
drove
slowly
along,
talking
and
resting
by
the
way.
Mrs.
Todd
said
once
that
she
really
hoped
her
front
door
had
been
shut
on
account
of
the
dust
blowing
in,
but
added
that
nothing
made
any
weight
on
her
mind
except
not
to
forget
to
turn
a
few
late
mullein
leaves
that
were
drying
on
a
newspaper
in
the
little
loft.
Mrs.
Blackett
and
I
gave
our
word
of
honor
that
we
would
remind
her
of
this
heavy
responsibility.
The
way
seemed
short,
we
had
so
much
to
talk
about.
We
climbed
hills
where
we
could
see
the
great
bay
and
the
islands,
and
then
went
down
into
shady
valleys
where
the
air
began
to
feel
like
evening,
cool
and
camp
with
a
fragrance
of
wet
ferns.
Mrs.
Todd
alighted
once
or
twice,
refusing
all
assistance
in
securing
some
boughs
of
a
rare
shrub
which
she
valued
for
its
bark,
though
she
proved
incommunicative
as
to
her
reasons.
We
passed
the
house
where
we
had
been
so
kindly
entertained
with
doughnuts
earlier
in
the
day,
and
found
it
closed
and
deserted,
which
was
a
disappointment.
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