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The Country of the Pointed Firs-Part2_Sarah Orne Jewett(1849-1909)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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corner of the garden, whose use she could never be betrayed

into telling me, though I saw her cutting the tops by moonlight



once, as if it were a charm, and not a medicine, like the great

fading bloodroot leaves.



I could see that she was trying to keep pace with the old

captain's lighter steps. He looked like an aged grasshopper of



some strange human variety. Behind this pair was a short,

impatient, little person, who kept the captain's house, and gave it



what Mrs. Todd and others believed to be no proper sort of care.

She was usually called "that Mari' Harris" in subdued conversation



between intimates, but they treated her with anxiouscivility when

they met her face to face.



The bay-sheltered islands and the great sea beyond stretched

away to the far horizonsouthward and eastward; the little



procession in the foreground looked futile and helpless on the edge

of the rocky shore. It was a glorious day early in July, with a



clear, high sky; there were no clouds, there was no noise of the

sea. The song sparrows sang and sang, as if with joyous knowledge



of immortality, and contempt for those who could so pettily concern

themselves with death. I stood watching until the funeral



procession had crept round a shoulder of the slope below and

disappeared from the great landscape as if it had gone into a cave.



An hour later I was busy at my work. Now and then a bee

blundered in and took me for an enemy; but there was a useful stick



upon the teacher's desk, and I rapped to call the bees to order as

if they were unruly scholars, or waved them away from their riots



over the ink, which I had bought at the Landing store, and

discovered to be scented with bergamot, as if to refresh the labors



of anxious scribes. One anxious scribe felt very dull that day; a

sheep-bell tinkled near by, and called her wandering wits after it.



The sentences failed to catch these lovely summer cadences. For

the first time I began to wish for a companion and for news from



the outer world, which had been, half unconsciously, forgotten.

Watching the funeral gave one a sort of pain. I began to wonder if



I ought not to have walked with the rest, instead of hurrying away

at the end of the services. Perhaps the Sunday gown I had put on



for the occasion was making this disastrous change of feeling, but

I had now made myself and my friends remember that I did not really



belong to Dunnet Landing.

I sighed, and turned to the half-written page again.



V

Captain Littlepage



IT WAS A long time after this; an hour was very long in that coast

town where nothing stole away the shortest minute. I had lost



myself completely in work, when I heard footsteps outside. There

was a steep footpath between the upper and the lower road, which I



climbed to shorten the way, as the children had taught me, but I

believed that Mrs. Todd would find it inaccessible, unless she had



occasion to seek me in great haste. I wrote on, feeling like a

besieged miser of time, while the footsteps came nearer, and the



sheep-bell tinkled away in haste as if someone had shaken a stick

in its wearer's face. Then I looked, and saw Captain Littlepage



passing the nearest window; the next moment he tapped politely at

the door.



"Come in, sir," I said, rising to meet him; and he entered,

bowing with much courtesy. I stepped down from the desk and



offered him a chair by the window, where he seated himself at once,

being sadly spent by his climb. I returned to my fixed seat behind



the teacher's desk, which gave him the lower place of a scholar.

"You ought to have the place of honor, Captain Littlepage," I



said.

"A happy, rural seat of various views,"



he quoted, as he gazed out into the sunshine and up the long wooded

shore. Then he glanced at me, and looked all about him as pleased



as a child.

"My quotation was from Paradise Lost: the greatest of poems,



I suppose you know?" and I nodded. "There's nothing that ranks, to

my mind, with Paradise Lost; it's all lofty, all lofty," he



continued. "Shakespeare was a great poet; he copied life, but you

have to put up with a great deal of low talk."



I now remembered that Mrs. Todd had told me one day that

Captain Littlepage had overset his mind with too much reading; she



had also made dark reference to his having "spells" of some

unexplainable nature. I could not help wondering what errand had



brought him out in search of me. There was something quite




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