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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
41
The
house
was
just
before
us
now,
on
a
green
level
that
looked
as
if
a
huge
hand
had
scooped
it
out
of
the
long
green
field
we
had
been
ascending.
A
little
way
above,
the
dark,
spruce
woods
began
to
climb
the
top
of
the
hill
and
cover
the
seaward
slopes
of
the
island.
There
was
just
room
for
the
small
farm
and
the
forest;
we
looked
down
at
the
fish-house
and
its
rough
sheds,
and
the
weirs
stretching
far
out
into
the
water.
As
we
looked
upward,
the
tops
of
the
firs
came
sharp
against
the
blue
sky.
There
was
a
great
stretch
of
rough
pasture-land
round
the
shoulder
of
the
island
to
the
eastward,
and
here
were
all
the
thick-scattered
gray
rocks
that
kept
their
places,
and
the
gray
backs
of
many
sheep
that
forever
wandered
and
fed
on
the
thin
sweet
pasturage
that
fringed
the
ledges
and
made
soft
hollows
and
strips
of
green
turf
like
growing
velvet.
I
could
see
the
rich
green
of
bayberry
bushes
here
and
there,
where
the
rocks
made
room.
The
air
was
very
sweet;
one
could
not
help
wishing
to
be
a
citizen
of
such
a
complete
and
tiny
continent
and
home
of
fisherfolk.
The
house
was
broad
and
clean,
with
a
roof
that
looked
heavy
on
its
low
walls.
It
was
one
of
the
houses
that
seem
firm-rooted
in
the
ground,
as
if
they
were
two-thirds
below
the
surface,
like
icebergs.
The
front
door
stood
hospitably
open
in
expectation
of
company,
and
an
orderly
vine
grew
at
each
side;
but
our
path
led
to
the
kitchen
door
at
the
house-end,
and
there
grew
a
mass
of
gay
flowers
and
greenery,
as
if
they
had
been
swept
together
by
some
diligent
garden
broom
into
a
tangled
heap:
there
were
portulacas
all
along
under
the
lower
step
and
straggling
off
into
the
grass,
and
clustering
mallows
that
crept
as
near
as
they
dared,
like
poor
relations.
I
saw
the
bright
eyes
and
brainless
little
heads
of
two
half-grown
chickens
who
were
snuggled
down
among
the
mallows
as
if
they
had
been
chased
away
from
the
door
more
than
once,
and
expected
to
be
again.
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