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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
74
“Yes,”
said
Mrs.
Todd,
losing
her
sad
reserve
in
the
growing
sympathy
of
these
reminiscences.
“How
everybody
used
to
notice
whether
there
was
smoke
out
of
the
chimney!
The
Black
Island
folks
could
see
her
with
their
spy-glass,
and
if
they'd
ever
missed
getting
some
sign
o'
life
they'd
have
sent
notice
to
her
folks.
But
after
the
first
year
or
two
Joanna
was
more
and
more
forgotten
as
an
every-day
charge.
Folks
lived
very
simple
in
those
days,
you
know,”
she
continued,
as
Mrs.
Fosdick's
knitting
was
taking
much
thought
at
the
moment.
“I
expect
there
was
always
plenty
of
driftwood
thrown
up,
and
a
poor
failin'
patch
of
spruces
covered
all
the
north
side
of
the
island,
so
she
always
had
something
to
burn.
She
was
very
fond
of
workin'
in
the
garden
ashore,
and
that
first
summer
she
began
to
till
the
little
field
out
there,
and
raised
a
nice
parcel
o'
potatoes.
She
could
fish,
o'
course,
and
there
was
all
her
clams
an'
lobsters.
You
can
always
live
well
in
any
wild
place
by
the
sea
when
you'd
starve
to
death
up
country,
except
'twas
berry
time.
Joanna
had
berries
out
there,
blackberries
at
least,
and
there
was
a
few
herbs
in
case
she
needed
them.
Mullein
in
great
quantities
and
a
plant
o'
wormwood
I
remember
seeing
once
when
I
stayed
there,
long
before
she
fled
out
to
Shell-heap.
Yes,
I
recall
the
wormwood,
which
is
always
a
planted
herb,
so
there
must
have
been
folks
there
before
the
Todds'
day.
A
growin'
bush
makes
the
best
gravestone;
I
expect
that
wormwood
always
stood
for
somebody's
solemn
monument.
Catnip,
too,
is
a
very
endurin'
herb
about
an
old
place.”
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