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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
37
A
long
time
before
we
landed
at
Green
Island
we
could
see
the
small
white
house,
standing
high
like
a
beacon,
where
Mrs.
Todd
was
born
and
where
her
mother
lived,
on
a
green
slope
above
the
water,
with
dark
spruce
woods
still
higher.
There
were
crops
in
the
fields,
which
we
presently
distinguished
from
one
another.
Mrs.
Todd
examined
them
while
we
were
still
far
at
sea.
“Mother's
late
potatoes
looks
backward;
ain't
had
rain
enough
so
far,”
she
pronounced
her
opinion.
“They
look
weedier
than
what
they
call
Front
Street
down
to
Cowper
Centre.
I
expect
brother
William
is
so
occupied
with
his
herrin'
weirs
an'
servin'
out
bait
to
the
schooners
that
he
don't
think
once
a
day
of
the
land.”
“What's
the
flag
for,
up
above
the
spruces
there
behind
the
house?”
I
inquired,
with
eagerness.
“Oh,
that's
the
sign
for
herrin',”
she
explained
kindly,
while
Johnny
Bowden
regarded
me
with
contemptuous
surprise.
“When
they
get
enough
for
schooners
they
raise
that
flag;
an'
when
'tis
a
poor
catch
in
the
weir
pocket
they
just
fly
a
little
signal
down
by
the
shore,
an'
then
the
small
bo'ts
comes
and
get
enough
an'
over
for
their
trawls.
There,
look!
there
she
is:
mother
sees
us;
she's
wavin'
somethin'
out
o'
the
fore
door!
She'll
be
to
the
landin'-place
quick's
we
are.”
I
looked,
and
could
see
a
tiny
flutter
in
the
doorway,
but
a
quicker
signal
had
made
its
way
from
the
heart
on
shore
to
the
heart
on
the
sea.
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