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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
89
The
month
was
August,
and
I
had
seen
the
color
of
the
islands
change
from
the
fresh
green
of
June
to
a
sunburnt
brown
that
made
them
look
like
stone,
except
where
the
dark
green
of
the
spruces
and
fir
balsam
kept
the
tint
that
even
winter
storms
might
deepen,
but
not
fade.
The
few
wind-bent
trees
on
Shell-heap
Island
were
mostly
dead
and
gray,
but
there
were
some
low-growing
bushes,
and
a
stripe
of
light
green
ran
along
just
above
the
shore,
which
I
knew
to
be
wild
morning-glories.
As
we
came
close
I
could
see
the
high
stone
walls
of
a
small
square
field,
though
there
were
no
sheep
left
to
assail
it;
and
below,
there
was
a
little
harbor-like
cove
where
Captain
Bowden
was
boldly
running
the
great
boat
in
to
seek
a
landing-place.
There
was
a
crooked
channel
of
deep
water
which
led
close
up
against
the
shore.
“There,
you
hold
fast
for'ard
there,
an'
wait
for
her
to
lift
on
the
wave.
You'll
make
a
good
landin'
if
you're
smart;
right
on
the
port-hand
side!”
the
captain
called
excitedly;
and
I,
standing
ready
with
high
ambition,
seized
my
chance
and
leaped
over
to
the
grassy
bank.
“I'm
beat
if
I
ain't
aground
after
all!”
mourned
the
captain
despondently.
But
I
could
reach
the
bowsprit,
and
he
pushed
with
the
boat-hook,
while
the
wind
veered
round
a
little
as
if
on
purpose
and
helped
with
the
sail;
so
presently
the
boat
was
free
and
began
to
drift
out
from
shore.
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