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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
90
“Used
to
call
this
p'int
Joanna's
wharf
privilege,
but
't
has
worn
away
in
the
weather
since
her
time.
I
thought
one
or
two
bumps
wouldn't
hurt
us
none,--paint's
got
to
be
renewed,
anyway,--but
I
never
thought
she'd
tetch.
I
figured
on
shyin'
by,”
the
captain
apologized.
“She's
too
gre't
a
boat
to
handle
well
in
here;
but
I
used
to
sort
of
shy
by
in
Joanna's
day,
an'
cast
a
little
somethin'
ashore--some
apples
or
a
couple
o'
pears
if
I
had
'em--on
the
grass,
where
she'd
be
sure
to
see.”
I
stood
watching
while
Captain
Bowden
cleverly
found
his
way
back
to
deeper
water.
“You
needn't
make
no
haste,”
he
called
to
me;
“I'll
keep
within
call.
Joanna
lays
right
up
there
in
the
far
corner
o'
the
field.
There
used
to
be
a
path
led
to
the
place.
I
always
knew
her
well.
I
was
out
here
to
the
funeral.”
I
found
the
path;
it
was
touching
to
discover
that
this
lonely
spot
was
not
without
its
pilgrims.
Later
generations
will
know
less
and
less
of
Joanna
herself,
but
there
are
paths
trodden
to
the
shrines
of
solitude
the
world
over,--the
world
cannot
forget
them,
try
as
it
may;
the
feet
of
the
young
find
them
out
because
of
curiosity
and
dim
foreboding;
while
the
old
bring
hearts
full
of
remembrance.
This
plain
anchorite
had
been
one
of
those
whom
sorrow
made
too
lonely
to
brave
the
sight
of
men,
too
timid
to
front
the
simple
world
she
knew,
yet
valiant
enough
to
live
alone
with
her
poor
insistent
human
nature
and
the
calms
and
passions
of
the
sea
and
sky.
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