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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
34
“Oh,
my
sakes!
now
you
let
me
do
things
my
way,”
said
Mrs.
Todd
scornfully.
“No,
dear,
we
won't
take
no
big
bo't.
I'll
just
git
a
handy
dory,
an'
Johnny
Bowden
an'
me,
we'll
man
her
ourselves.
I
don't
want
no
abler
bo't
than
a
good
dory,
an'
a
nice
light
breeze
ain't
goin'
to
make
no
sea;
an'
Johnny's
my
cousin's
son,--mother'll
like
to
have
him
come;
an'
he'll
be
down
to
the
herrin'
weirs
all
the
time
we're
there,
anyway;
we
don't
want
to
carry
no
men
folks
havin'
to
be
considered
every
minute
an'
takin'
up
all
our
time.
No,
you
let
me
do;
we'll
just
slip
out
an'
see
mother
by
ourselves.
I
guess
what
breakfast
you'll
want's
about
ready
now.”
I
had
become
well
acquainted
with
Mrs.
Todd
as
landlady,
herb-gatherer,
and
rustic
philosopher;
we
had
been
discreet
fellow-passengers
once
or
twice
when
I
had
sailed
up
the
coast
to
a
larger
town
than
Dunnet
Landing
to
do
some
shopping;
but
I
was
yet
to
become
acquainted
with
her
as
a
mariner.
An
hour
later
we
pushed
off
from
the
landing
in
the
desired
dory.
The
tide
was
just
on
the
turn,
beginning
to
fall,
and
several
friends
and
acquaintances
stood
along
the
side
of
the
dilapidated
wharf
and
cheered
us
by
their
words
and
evident
interest.
Johnny
Bowden
and
I
were
both
rowing
in
haste
to
get
out
where
we
could
catch
the
breeze
and
put
up
the
small
sail
which
lay
clumsily
furled
along
the
gunwale.
Mrs.
Todd
sat
aft,
a
stern
and
unbending
lawgiver.
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