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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
141
“The
old
ones
are
always
the
prettiest,”
I
said.
“You
ain't
referrin'
to
the
braided
ones
now?”
answered
Mr.
Tilley.
“You
see
ours
is
braided
for
the
most
part,
an'
their
good
looks
is
all
in
the
beginnin'.
Poor
dear
used
to
say
they
made
an
easier
floor.
I
go
shufflin'
round
the
house
same's
if
'twas
a
bo't,
and
I
always
used
to
be
stubbin'
up
the
corners
o'
the
hooked
kind.
Her
an'
me
was
always
havin'
our
jokes
together
same's
a
boy
an'
girl.
Outsiders
never'd
know
nothin'
about
it
to
see
us.
She
had
nice
manners
with
all,
but
to
me
there
was
nobody
so
entertainin'.
She'd
take
off
anybody's
natural
talk
winter
evenin's
when
we
set
here
alone,
so
you'd
think
'twas
them
a-speakin'.
There,
there!”
I
saw
that
he
had
dropped
a
stitch
again,
and
was
snarling
the
blue
yarn
round
his
clumsy
fingers.
He
handled
it
and
threw
it
off
at
arm's
length
as
if
it
were
a
cod
line;
and
frowned
impatiently,
but
I
saw
a
tear
shining
on
his
cheek.
I
said
that
I
must
be
going,
it
was
growing
late,
and
asked
if
I
might
come
again,
and
if
he
would
take
me
out
to
the
fishing
grounds
someday.
“Yes,
come
any
time
you
want
to,”
said
my
host,
“'tain't
so
pleasant
as
when
poor
dear
was
here.
Oh,
I
didn't
want
to
lose
her
an'
she
didn't
want
to
go,
but
it
had
to
be.
Such
things
ain't
for
us
to
say;
there's
no
yes
an'
no
to
it.”
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