The Country of the Pointed Firs

“He don't often have such a chance to show off his gifts,” said Mrs. Caplin, a friend from the Landing who had joined us. “That's Sant Bowden; he always takes the lead, such days. Good for nothing else most o' his time; trouble is, he”-- I turned with interest to hear the worst. Mrs. Caplin's tone was both zealous and impressive. “Stim'lates,” she explained scornfully. “No, Santin never was in the war,” said Mrs. Todd with lofty indifference. “It was a cause of real distress to him. He kep' enlistin', and traveled far an' wide about here, an' even took the bo't and went to Boston to volunteer; but he ain't a sound man, an' they wouldn't have him. They say he knows all their tactics, an' can tell all about the battle o' Waterloo well's he can Bunker Hill. I told him once the country'd lost a great general, an' I meant it, too.” “I expect you're near right,” said Mrs. Caplin, a little crestfallen and apologetic. “I be right,” insisted Mrs. Todd with much amiability. “'Twas most too bad to cramp him down to his peaceful trade, but he's a most excellent shoemaker at his best, an' he always says it's a trade that gives him time to think an' plan his maneuvers. Over to the Port they always invite him to march Decoration Day, same as the rest, an' he does look noble; he comes of soldier stock.” I had been noticing with great interest the curiously French type of face which prevailed in this rustic company. I had said to myself before that Mrs. Blackett was plainly of French descent, in both her appearance and her charming gifts, but this is not surprising when one has learned how large a proportion of the early settlers on this northern coast of New England were of Huguenot blood, and that it is the Norman Englishman, not the Saxon, who goes adventuring to a new world.