[Note from the Webmaster: Asterisked words are defined in the Vocabulary section at the back of the book.]
ONE
BLUEBERRY COTTAGE
I know a cottage on the coast of Maine...
Let a jack pine rustle, and I'm living there again,
In a clearing of the woods where the waves say 'woosh'
And the sea swallow nests in a wild-rose bush,
And the little wild strawberries redden under foot,
And the woodchuck nibbles at the rosemarie root,
And the fish hawk over the pine wood wheels,
And the cormorant cries to the barking seals,
Till the Red Man's ghost in a birch canoe
Dips his paddle and...
NOBODY WAS THERE. You might have thought that someone had been singing, and suddenly stopped. But there was nobody. Everything was quite still. There was only the sound of the long sea-wave washing peacefully against the red and gray rocks below.
Only a moment ago, it seemed, somebody had been standing there to listen; somebody standing there to breathe the scent of the sun-warmed pine needles and the salt smell of the tawny* seaweed as it rose and fell with the clear green water.
The deserted cottage looked as if it were waiting to be remembered. It was backed by a half circle of pine trees and silver birches. It stood on a little rock-bound meadow ledge, overlooking a broad reach* of deep-blue sea. In the distance it saw three small pine-tufted islands, where only sea gulls and other wild creatures lived. Beyond these was the Atlantic.
But Blueberry Cottage looked far too cheerful to be deserted so early in the fall. It was built of sturdy pine, with a rough-stone chimney and a roof of well-seasoned shingle. In the patch of long grass and ferns around it, the bees were still hovering over the wild Michaehnas daisies; and among the rocks there were all sorts of deliciously* scented little shrubs where the rambling foot-wide path went down to the beach. In front of the cottage the sun was flooding the wide veranda. On one of its sun-blistered green tables there was a book with a faded cover. Everything else had been put away. The windows had shutters; and these, apparently, were all made fast.
A song sparrow piped three plaintive* notes where the pines went down to the water. It was too delicious never to have been heard by someone who enjoyed it. It was not the time for bird song, but it was answered by a remote elfin* echo, dying away along the coast. Somebody had listened to that lonely cry , keen and sweet as a pine needle pricking your heart. But nobody was there now.
From above the cottage there came a soft thud, as though a pine cone had fallen on the shingled roof. It was followed by another; and then two more, rather lighter than the first two. If there had been any human there, he might have seen, on the ridge of the roof, two red squirrels sitting upright, with their bushy tails erect behind them, and their cocked ears and bright black eyes alert for danger. But they, too, seemed to be sure that everyone had gone away. One of them uttered a light chirrup, and immediately there were two smaller squirrels, one on either side of their parents, in the same attitude, ears cocked and eyes glancing round them with unmistakable delight in the absence of all humans.
There was another chirrup which, in their own language, undoubtedly meant "Now do be careful, Grandfather"; and larger squirrel, whose coat was turning gray, dropped somewhat more heavily onto the roof beside them.
It was no new adventure, for after making quite certain that they would not be disturbed, they all moved quickly to a sheltered corner near the chimney, where Mrs. Squirrel displaced* a loose bit of shingling and discovered their private entrance to the house. One more glance around them - to make quite sure that no human was there; and, one by one, they entered. The last to enter cunningly readjusted the loose bit of shingling, so that no hole could be seen even by a wandering sea gull overhead. Then all was as quiet as before; and, if the human owner of the cottage had returned and walked round the outside of his abode, he would have suspected nothing. Nor could he have imagined what was happening within.
ONE
BLUEBERRY COTTAGE
I know a cottage on the coast of Maine...
Let a jack pine rustle, and I'm living there again,
In a clearing of the woods where the waves say 'woosh'
And the sea swallow nests in a wild-rose bush,
And the little wild strawberries redden under foot,
And the woodchuck nibbles at the rosemarie root,
And the fish hawk over the pine wood wheels,
And the cormorant cries to the barking seals,
Till the Red Man's ghost in a birch canoe
Dips his paddle and...
NOBODY WAS THERE. You might have thought that someone had been singing, and suddenly stopped. But there was nobody. Everything was quite still. There was only the sound of the long sea-wave washing peacefully against the red and gray rocks below.
Only a moment ago, it seemed, somebody had been standing there to listen; somebody standing there to breathe the scent of the sun-warmed pine needles and the salt smell of the tawny* seaweed as it rose and fell with the clear green water.
The deserted cottage looked as if it were waiting to be remembered. It was backed by a half circle of pine trees and silver birches. It stood on a little rock-bound meadow ledge, overlooking a broad reach* of deep-blue sea. In the distance it saw three small pine-tufted islands, where only sea gulls and other wild creatures lived. Beyond these was the Atlantic.
But Blueberry Cottage looked far too cheerful to be deserted so early in the fall. It was built of sturdy pine, with a rough-stone chimney and a roof of well-seasoned shingle. In the patch of long grass and ferns around it, the bees were still hovering over the wild Michaehnas daisies; and among the rocks there were all sorts of deliciously* scented little shrubs where the rambling foot-wide path went down to the beach. In front of the cottage the sun was flooding the wide veranda. On one of its sun-blistered green tables there was a book with a faded cover. Everything else had been put away. The windows had shutters; and these, apparently, were all made fast.
A song sparrow piped three plaintive* notes where the pines went down to the water. It was too delicious never to have been heard by someone who enjoyed it. It was not the time for bird song, but it was answered by a remote elfin* echo, dying away along the coast. Somebody had listened to that lonely cry , keen and sweet as a pine needle pricking your heart. But nobody was there now.
From above the cottage there came a soft thud, as though a pine cone had fallen on the shingled roof. It was followed by another; and then two more, rather lighter than the first two. If there had been any human there, he might have seen, on the ridge of the roof, two red squirrels sitting upright, with their bushy tails erect behind them, and their cocked ears and bright black eyes alert for danger. But they, too, seemed to be sure that everyone had gone away. One of them uttered a light chirrup, and immediately there were two smaller squirrels, one on either side of their parents, in the same attitude, ears cocked and eyes glancing round them with unmistakable delight in the absence of all humans.
There was another chirrup which, in their own language, undoubtedly meant "Now do be careful, Grandfather"; and larger squirrel, whose coat was turning gray, dropped somewhat more heavily onto the roof beside them.
It was no new adventure, for after making quite certain that they would not be disturbed, they all moved quickly to a sheltered corner near the chimney, where Mrs. Squirrel displaced* a loose bit of shingling and discovered their private entrance to the house. One more glance around them - to make quite sure that no human was there; and, one by one, they entered. The last to enter cunningly readjusted the loose bit of shingling, so that no hole could be seen even by a wandering sea gull overhead. Then all was as quiet as before; and, if the human owner of the cottage had returned and walked round the outside of his abode, he would have suspected nothing. Nor could he have imagined what was happening within.
Excerpted from The Secret of Pooduck Island by Alfred Noyes
1943, Catholic Authors Press, Used with permission of Neumann Press