The Country of the Pointed Firs

“But what I want to know is what she did for other things,” interrupted Mrs. Fosdick. “Almiry, what did she do for clothin' when she needed to replenish, or risin' for her bread, or the piece-bag that no woman can live long without?” “Or company,” suggested Mrs. Todd. “Joanna was one that loved her friends. There must have been a terrible sight o' long winter evenin's that first year.” “There was her hens,” suggested Mrs. Fosdick, after reviewing the melancholy situation. “She never wanted the sheep after that first season. There wa'n't no proper pasture for sheep after the June grass was past, and she ascertained the fact and couldn't bear to see them suffer; but the chickens done well. I remember sailin' by one spring afternoon, an' seein' the coops out front o' the house in the sun. How long was it before you went out with the minister? You were the first ones that ever really got ashore to see Joanna.” I had been reflecting upon a state of society which admitted such personal freedom and a voluntary hermitage. There was something mediaeval in the behavior of poor Joanna Todd under a disappointment of the heart. The two women had drawn closer together, and were talking on, quite unconscious of a listener. “Poor Joanna!” said Mrs. Todd again, and sadly shook her head as if there were things one could not speak about. “I called her a great fool,” declared Mrs. Fosdick, with spirit, “but I pitied her then, and I pity her far more now. Some other minister would have been a great help to her,--one that preached self-forgetfulness and doin' for others to cure our own ills; but Parson Dimmick was a vague person, well meanin', but very numb in his feelin's. I don't suppose at that troubled time Joanna could think of any way to mend her troubles except to run off and hide.”