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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
36
As
we
sailed
along
I
listened
to
an
increasingly
delightful
commentary
upon
the
islands,
some
of
them
barren
rocks,
or
at
best
giving
sparse
pasturage
for
sheep
in
the
early
summer.
On
one
of
these
an
eager
little
flock
ran
to
the
water's
edge
and
bleated
at
us
so
affectingly
that
I
would
willingly
have
stopped;
but
Mrs.
Todd
steered
away
from
the
rocks,
and
scolded
at
the
sheep's
mean
owner,
an
acquaintance
of
hers,
who
grudged
the
little
salt
and
still
less
care
which
the
patient
creatures
needed.
The
hot
midsummer
sun
makes
prisons
of
these
small
islands
that
are
a
paradise
in
early
June,
with
their
cool
springs
and
short
thick-growing
grass.
On
a
larger
island,
farther
out
to
sea,
my
entertaining
companion
showed
me
with
glee
the
small
houses
of
two
farmers
who
shared
the
island
between
them,
and
declared
that
for
three
generations
the
people
had
not
spoken
to
each
other
even
in
times
of
sickness
or
death
or
birth.
“When
the
news
come
that
the
war
was
over,
one
of
'em
knew
it
a
week,
and
never
stepped
across
his
wall
to
tell
the
other,”
she
said.
“There,
they
enjoy
it;
they've
got
to
have
somethin'
to
interest
'em
in
such
a
place;
'tis
a
good
deal
more
tryin'
to
be
tied
to
folks
you
don't
like
than
'tis
to
be
alone.
Each
of
'em
tell
the
neighbors
their
wrongs;
plenty
likes
to
hear
and
tell
again;
them
as
fetch
a
bone'll
carry
one,
an'
so
they
keep
the
fight
a-goin'.
I
must
say
I
like
variety
myself;
some
folks
washes
Monday
an'
irons
Tuesday
the
whole
year
round,
even
if
the
circus
is
goin'
by!”
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