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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
127
I
watched
her
for
a
minute
or
two;
she
was
the
old
Miranda,
owned
by
some
of
the
Caplins,
and
I
knew
her
by
an
odd
shaped
patch
of
newish
duck
that
was
set
into
the
peak
of
her
dingy
mainsail.
Her
vagaries
offered
such
an
exciting
subject
for
conversation
that
my
heart
rejoiced
at
the
sound
of
a
hoarse
voice
behind
me.
At
that
moment,
before
I
had
time
to
answer,
I
saw
something
large
and
shapeless
flung
from
the
Miranda's
deck
that
splashed
the
water
high
against
her
black
side,
and
my
companion
gave
a
satisfied
chuckle.
The
old
lobster
smack's
sail
caught
the
breeze
again
at
this
moment,
and
she
moved
off
down
the
bay.
Turning,
I
found
old
Elijah
Tilley,
who
had
come
softly
out
of
his
dark
fish-house,
as
if
it
were
a
burrow.
“Boy
got
kind
o'
drowsy
steerin'
of
her;
Monroe
he
hove
him
right
overboard;
'wake
now
fast
enough,”
explained
Mr.
Tilley,
and
we
laughed
together.
I
was
delighted,
for
my
part,
that
the
vicissitudes
and
dangers
of
the
Miranda,
in
a
rocky
channel,
should
have
given
me
this
opportunity
to
make
acquaintance
with
an
old
fisherman
to
whom
I
had
never
spoken.
At
first
he
had
seemed
to
be
one
of
those
evasive
and
uncomfortable
persons
who
are
so
suspicious
of
you
that
they
make
you
almost
suspicious
of
yourself.
Mr.
Elijah
Tilley
appeared
to
regard
a
stranger
with
scornful
indifference.
You
might
see
him
standing
on
the
pebble
beach
or
in
a
fish-house
doorway,
but
when
you
came
nearer
he
was
gone.
He
was
one
of
the
small
company
of
elderly,
gaunt-shaped
great
fisherman
whom
I
used
to
like
to
see
leading
up
a
deep-laden
boat
by
the
head,
as
if
it
were
a
horse,
from
the
water's
edge
to
the
steep
slope
of
the
pebble
beach.
There
were
four
of
these
large
old
men
at
the
Landing,
who
were
the
survivors
of
an
earlier
and
more
vigorous
generation.
There
was
an
alliance
and
understanding
between
them,
so
close
that
it
was
apparently
speechless.
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