The Country of the Pointed Firs

“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.