Lab
Library
Journal
Shop
Sign in
to keep
Share image
1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
147
As
I
came
away
on
the
little
coastwise
steamer,
there
was
an
old
sea
running
which
made
the
surf
leap
high
on
all
the
rocky
shores.
I
stood
on
deck,
looking
back,
and
watched
the
busy
gulls
agree
and
turn,
and
sway
together
down
the
long
slopes
of
air,
then
separate
hastily
and
plunge
into
the
waves.
The
tide
was
setting
in,
and
plenty
of
small
fish
were
coming
with
it,
unconscious
of
the
silver
flashing
of
the
great
birds
overhead
and
the
quickness
of
their
fierce
beaks.
The
sea
was
full
of
life
and
spirit,
the
tops
of
the
waves
flew
back
as
if
they
were
winged
like
the
gulls
themselves,
and
like
them
had
the
freedom
of
the
wind.
Out
in
the
main
channel
we
passed
a
bent-shouldered
old
fisherman
bound
for
the
evening
round
among
his
lobster
traps.
He
was
toiling
along
with
short
oars,
and
the
dory
tossed
and
sank
and
tossed
again
with
the
steamer's
waves.
I
saw
that
it
was
old
Elijah
Tilley,
and
though
we
had
so
long
been
strangers
we
had
come
to
be
warm
friends,
and
I
wished
that
he
had
waited
for
one
of
his
mates,
it
was
such
hard
work
to
row
along
shore
through
rough
seas
and
tend
the
traps
alone.
As
we
passed
I
waved
my
hand
and
tried
to
call
to
him,
and
he
looked
up
and
answered
my
farewells
by
a
solemn
nod.
The
little
town,
with
the
tall
masts
of
its
disabled
schooners
in
the
inner
bay,
stood
high
above
the
flat
sea
for
a
few
minutes
then
it
sank
back
into
the
uniformity
of
the
coast,
and
became
indistinguishable
from
the
other
towns
that
looked
as
if
they
were
crumbled
on
the
furzy-green
stoniness
of
the
shore.
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
