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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
88
“Where
is
Shell-heap
Island?”
I
asked
eagerly.
“You
see
Shell-heap
now,
layin'
'way
out
beyond
Black
Island
there,”
answered
the
captain,
pointing
with
outstretched
arm
as
he
stood,
and
holding
the
rudder
with
his
knee.
“I
should
like
very
much
to
go
there,”
said
I,
and
the
captain,
without
comment,
changed
his
course
a
little
more
to
the
eastward
and
let
the
reef
out
of
his
mainsail.
“I
don't
know's
we
can
make
an
easy
landin'
for
ye,”
he
remarked
doubtfully.
“May
get
your
feet
wet;
bad
place
to
land.
Trouble
is
I
ought
to
have
brought
a
tag-boat;
but
they
clutch
on
to
the
water
so,
an'
I
do
love
to
sail
free.
This
gre't
boat
gets
easy
bothered
with
anything
trailin'.
'Tain't
breakin'
much
on
the
meetin'-house
ledges;
guess
I
can
fetch
in
to
Shell-heap.”
“How
long
is
it
since
Miss
Joanna
Todd
died?”
I
asked,
partly
by
way
of
explanation.
“Twenty-two
years
come
September,”
answered
the
captain,
after
reflection.
“She
died
the
same
year
as
my
oldest
boy
was
born,
an'
the
town
house
was
burnt
over
to
the
Port.
I
didn't
know
but
you
merely
wanted
to
hunt
for
some
o'
them
Indian
relics.
Long's
you
want
to
see
where
Joanna
lived--No,
'tain't
breakin'
over
the
ledges;
we'll
manage
to
fetch
across
the
shoals
somehow,
'tis
such
a
distance
to
go
'way
round,
and
tide's
a-risin',”
he
ended
hopefully,
and
we
sailed
steadily
on,
the
captain
speechless
with
intent
watching
of
a
difficult
course,
until
the
small
island
with
its
low
whitish
promontory
lay
in
full
view
before
us
under
the
bright
afternoon
sun.
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