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The Country of the Pointed Firs-Part16_Sarah Orne Jewett(1849-1909)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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a historian among the Bowdens, who gave some fine anecdotes of the

family history; and then appeared a poetess, whom Mrs. Todd



regarded with wistfulcompassion and indulgence, and when the long

faded garland of verses came to an appealing end, she turned to me



with words of praise.

"Sounded pretty," said the generouslistener. "Yes, I thought



she did very well. We went to school together, an' Mary Anna had

a very hard time; trouble was, her mother thought she'd given birth



to a genius, an' Mary Anna's come to believe it herself. There, I

don't know what we should have done without her; there ain't nobody



else that can write poetry between here and 'way up towards

Rockland; it adds a great deal at such a time. When she speaks o'



those that are gone, she feels it all, and so does everybody else,

but she harps too much. I'd laid half of that away for next time,



if I was Mary Anna. There comes mother to speak to her, an' old

Mr. Gilbreath's sister; now she'll be heartened right up.



Mother'll say just the right thing."

The leave-takings were as affecting as the meetings of these



old friends had been. There were enough young persons at the

reunion, but it is the old who really value such opportunities; as



for the young, it is the habit of every day to meet their

comrades,--the time of separation has not come. To see the



joy with which these elder kinsfolk and acquaintances had looked in

one another's faces, and the lingering touch of their friendly



hands; to see these affectionate meetings and then the reluctant

partings, gave one a new idea of the isolation in which it was



possible to live in that after all thinly settled region. They did

not expect to see one another again very soon; the steady, hard



work on the farms, the difficulty of getting from place to place,

especially in winter when boats were laid up, gave double value to



any occasion which could bring a large number of families together.

Even funerals in this country of the pointed firs were not without



their social advantages and satisfactions. I heard the words "next

summer" repeated many times, though summer was still ours and all



the leaves were green.

The boats began to put out from shore, and the wagons to drive



away. Mrs. Blackett took me into the old house when we came back

from the grove: it was her father's birthplace and early home, and



she had spent much of her own childhood there with her grandmother.

She spoke of those days as if they had but lately passed; in fact,



I could imagine that the house looked almost exactly the same to

her. I could see the brown rafters of the unfinished roof as I



looked up the steep staircase, though the best room was as handsome

with its good wainscoting and touch of ornament on the cornice as



any old room of its day in a town.

Some of the guests who came from a distance were still sitting



in the best room when we went in to take leave of the master and

mistress of the house. We all said eagerly what a pleasant day it



had been, and how swiftly the time had passed. Perhaps it is the

great national anniversaries which our country has lately kept, and



the soldiers' meetings that take place everywhere, which have made

reunions of every sort the fashion. This one, at least, had been



very interesting. I fancied that old feuds had been overlooked,

and the old saying that blood is thicker than water had again



proved itself true, though from the variety of names one argued a

certain adulteration of the Bowden traits and belongings.



Clannishness is an instinct of the heart,--it is more than a

birthright, or a custom; and lesser rights were forgotten in the



claim to a common inheritance.

We were among the very last to return to our proper lives and



lodgings. I came near to feeling like a true Bowden, and parted

from certain new friends as if they were old friends; we were rich



with the treasure of a new remembrance.

At last we were in the high wagon again; the old white horse



had been well fed in the Bowden barn, and we drove away and soon

began to climb the long hill toward the wooded ridge. The road was



new to me, as roads always are, going back. Most of our companions




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