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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
142
“You
find
Almiry
Todd
one
o'
the
best
o'
women?”
said
Mr.
Tilley
as
we
parted.
He
was
standing
in
the
doorway
and
I
had
started
off
down
the
narrow
green
field.
“No,
there
ain't
a
better
hearted
woman
in
the
State
o'
Maine.
I've
known
her
from
a
girl.
She's
had
the
best
o'
mothers.
You
tell
her
I'm
liable
to
fetch
her
up
a
couple
or
three
nice
good
mackerel
early
tomorrow,”
he
said.
“Now
don't
let
it
slip
your
mind.
Poor
dear,
she
always
thought
a
sight
o'
Almiry,
and
she
used
to
remind
me
there
was
nobody
to
fish
for
her;
but
I
don't
rec'lect
it
as
I
ought
to.
I
see
you
drop
a
line
yourself
very
handy
now
an'
then.”
We
laughed
together
like
the
best
of
friends,
and
I
spoke
again
about
the
fishing
grounds,
and
confessed
that
I
had
no
fancy
for
a
southerly
breeze
and
a
ground
swell.
“Nor
me
neither,”
said
the
old
fisherman.
“Nobody
likes
'em,
say
what
they
may.
Poor
dear
was
disobliged
by
the
mere
sight
of
a
bo't.
Almiry's
got
the
best
o'
mothers,
I
expect
you
know;
Mis'
Blackett
out
to
Green
Island;
and
we
was
always
plannin'
to
go
out
when
summer
come;
but
there,
I
couldn't
pick
no
day's
weather
that
seemed
to
suit
her
just
right.
I
never
set
out
to
worry
her
neither,
'twa'n't
no
kind
o'
use;
she
was
so
pleasant
we
couldn't
have
no
fret
nor
trouble.
'Twas
never
'you
dear
an'
you
darlin''
afore
folks,
an'
'you
divil'
behind
the
door!”
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