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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
52
When
the
family
pictures
were
wrapped
again
in
a
big
handkerchief,
we
set
forward
in
a
narrow
footpath
and
made
our
way
to
a
lonely
place
that
faced
northward,
where
there
was
more
pasturage
and
fewer
bushes,
and
we
went
down
to
the
edge
of
short
grass
above
some
rocky
cliffs
where
the
deep
sea
broke
with
a
great
noise,
though
the
wind
was
down
and
the
water
looked
quiet
a
little
way
from
shore.
Among
the
grass
grew
such
pennyroyal
as
the
rest
of
the
world
could
not
provide.
There
was
a
fine
fragrance
in
the
air
as
we
gathered
it
sprig
by
sprig
and
stepped
along
carefully,
and
Mrs.
Todd
pressed
her
aromatic
nosegay
between
her
hands
and
offered
it
to
me
again
and
again.
“There's
nothin'
like
it,”
she
said;
“oh
no,
there's
no
such
pennyr'yal
as
this
in
the
state
of
Maine.
It's
the
right
pattern
of
the
plant,
and
all
the
rest
I
ever
see
is
but
an
imitation.
Don't
it
do
you
good?”
And
I
answered
with
enthusiasm.
“There,
dear,
I
never
showed
nobody
else
but
mother
where
to
find
this
place;
'tis
kind
of
sainted
to
me.
Nathan,
my
husband,
an'
I
used
to
love
this
place
when
we
was
courtin',
and”--she
hesitated,
and
then
spoke
softly--“when
he
was
lost,
'twas
just
off
shore
tryin'
to
get
in
by
the
short
channel
out
there
between
Squaw
Islands,
right
in
sight
o'
this
headland
where
we'd
set
an'
made
our
plans
all
summer
long.”
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