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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
23
Our
lane
came
to
an
end
at
some
bars
that
let
us
into
another
lane,--or
rather
a
footpath
or
cowpath,
bordered
with
cornfields
and
orchards.
We
were
still
on
home
ground,
for
my
father's
vegetable
garden
and
orchard
were
here.
After
a
long
straight
stretch,
the
path
suddenly
took
an
abrupt
turn,
widening
into
a
cart
road,
then
to
a
tumble-down
wharf,
and
there
was
the
river!
An
"arm
of
the
sea"
I
was
told
that
our
river
was,
and
it
did
seem
to
reach
around
the
town
and
hold
it
in
a
liquid
embrace.
Twice
a
day
the
tide
came
in
and
filled
its
muddy
bed
with
a
sparkling
flood.
So
it
was
a
river
only
half
the
time,
but
at
high
tide
it
was
a
river
indeed;
all
that
a
child
could
wish,
with
its
boats
and
its
sloops,
and
now
and
then
that
most
available
craft
for
a
crew
of
children--a
gundalow.
We
easily
transformed
the
spelling
into
"gondola,"
and
in
fancy
were
afloat
on
Venetian
waters,
under
some
overhanging
balcony,
perhaps
at
the
very
Palace
of
the
Doges,--willingly
blind
to
the
reality
of
a
mudscow
leaning
against
some
rickety
wharf
posts,
covered
with
barnacles.
Sometimes
a
neighbor
boy
who
was
the
fortunate
owner
of
a
boat
would
row
us
down
the
river
a
fearful,
because
a
forbidden,
joy.
The
widening
waters
made
us
tremble
with
dread
and
longing
for
what
might
be
beyond;
for
when
we
had
passed
under
the
piers
of
the
bridge,
the
estuary
broadened
into
the
harbor
and
the
open
sea.
Then
somebody
on
board
would
tell
a
story
of
children
who
had
drifted
away
beyond
the
harbor-bar
and
the
light-house,
and
were
drowned;
and
our
boyish
helmsman
would
begin
to
look
grave
and
anxious,
and
would
turn
his
boat
and
row
us
back
swiftly
to
the
safe
gundalow
and
tumbledown
wharf.
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