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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
132
I
went
up
the
field,
following
the
smooth
little
path
to
the
side
door.
As
for
using
the
front
door,
that
was
a
matter
of
great
ceremony;
the
long
grass
grew
close
against
the
high
stone
step,
and
a
snowberry
bush
leaned
over
it,
top-heavy
with
the
weight
of
a
morning-glory
vine
that
had
managed
to
take
what
the
fishermen
might
call
a
half
hitch
about
the
door-knob.
Elijah
Tilley
came
to
the
side
door
to
receive
me;
he
was
knitting
a
blue
yarn
stocking
without
looking
on,
and
was
warmly
dressed
for
the
season
in
a
thick
blue
flannel
shirt
with
white
crockery
buttons,
a
faded
waistcoat
and
trousers
heavily
patched
at
the
knees.
These
were
not
his
fishing
clothes.
There
was
something
delightful
in
the
grasp
of
his
hand,
warm
and
clean,
as
if
it
never
touched
anything
but
the
comfortable
woolen
yarn,
instead
of
cold
sea
water
and
slippery
fish.
“What
are
the
painted
stakes
for,
down
in
the
field?”
I
hastened
to
ask,
and
he
came
out
a
step
or
two
along
the
path
to
see;
and
looked
at
the
stakes
as
if
his
attention
were
called
to
them
for
the
first
time.
“Folks
laughed
at
me
when
I
first
bought
this
place
an'
come
here
to
live,”
he
explained.
“They
said
'twa'n't
no
kind
of
a
field
privilege
at
all;
no
place
to
raise
anything,
all
full
o'
stones.
I
was
aware
'twas
good
land,
an'
I
worked
some
on
it--odd
times
when
I
didn't
have
nothin'
else
on
hand--till
I
cleared
them
loose
stones
all
out.
You
never
see
a
prettier
piece
than
'tis
now;
now
did
ye?
Well,
as
for
them
painted
marks,
them's
my
buoys.
I
struck
on
to
some
heavy
rocks
that
didn't
show
none,
but
a
plow'd
be
liable
to
ground
on
'em,
an'
so
I
ketched
holt
an'
buoyed
'em
same's
you
see.
They
don't
trouble
me
no
more'n
if
they
wa'n't
there.”
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