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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
86
“I
expect
nowadays,
if
such
a
thing
happened,
she'd
have
gone
out
West
to
her
uncle's
folks
or
up
to
Massachusetts
and
had
a
change,
an'
come
home
good
as
new.
The
world's
bigger
an'
freer
than
it
used
to
be,”
urged
Mrs.
Fosdick.
“No,”
said
her
friend.
“'Tis
like
bad
eyesight,
the
mind
of
such
a
person:
if
your
eyes
don't
see
right
there
may
be
a
remedy,
but
there's
no
kind
of
glasses
to
remedy
the
mind.
No,
Joanna
was
Joanna,
and
there
she
lays
on
her
island
where
she
lived
and
did
her
poor
penance.
She
told
mother
the
day
she
was
dyin'
that
she
always
used
to
want
to
be
fetched
inshore
when
it
come
to
the
last;
but
she'd
thought
it
over,
and
desired
to
be
laid
on
the
island,
if
'twas
thought
right.
So
the
funeral
was
out
there,
a
Saturday
afternoon
in
September.
'Twas
a
pretty
day,
and
there
wa'n't
hardly
a
boat
on
the
coast
within
twenty
miles
that
didn't
head
for
Shell-heap
cram-full
o'
folks
an'
all
real
respectful,
same's
if
she'd
always
stayed
ashore
and
held
her
friends.
Some
went
out
o'
mere
curiosity,
I
don't
doubt,--there's
always
such
to
every
funeral;
but
most
had
real
feelin',
and
went
purpose
to
show
it.
She'd
got
most
o'
the
wild
sparrows
as
tame
as
could
be,
livin'
out
there
so
long
among
'em,
and
one
flew
right
in
and
lit
on
the
coffin
an'
begun
to
sing
while
Mr.
Dimmick
was
speakin'.
He
was
put
out
by
it,
an'
acted
as
if
he
didn't
know
whether
to
stop
or
go
on.
I
may
have
been
prejudiced,
but
I
wa'n't
the
only
one
thought
the
poor
little
bird
done
the
best
of
the
two.”
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