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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
139
The
French
cups
with
their
gay
sprigs
of
pink
and
blue,
the
best
tumblers,
an
old
flowered
bowl
and
tea
caddy,
and
a
japanned
waiter
or
two
adorned
the
shelves.
These,
with
a
few
daguerreotypes
in
a
little
square
pile,
had
the
closet
to
themselves,
and
I
was
conscious
of
much
pleasure
in
seeing
them.
One
is
shown
over
many
a
house
in
these
days
where
the
interest
may
be
more
complex,
but
not
more
definite.
“Those
were
her
best
things,
poor
dear,”
said
Elijah
as
he
locked
the
door
again.
“She
told
me
that
last
summer
before
she
was
taken
away
that
she
couldn't
think
o'
anything
more
she
wanted,
there
was
everything
in
the
house,
an'
all
her
rooms
was
furnished
pretty.
I
was
goin'
over
to
the
Port,
an'
inquired
for
errands.
I
used
to
ask
her
to
say
what
she
wanted,
cost
or
no
cost--she
was
a
very
reasonable
woman,
an'
'twas
the
place
where
she
done
all
but
her
extra
shopping.
It
kind
o'
chilled
me
up
when
she
spoke
so
satisfied.”
“You
don't
go
out
fishing
after
Christmas?”
I
asked,
as
we
came
back
to
the
bright
kitchen.
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