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Chauncey stopped rowing a minute, and held the oars with one hand while he looked over his shoulder. “I should miss them old trees,” he said; “they always make me think of a married couple. They ain’t no common growth, be they, Joe? Everybody knows ’em. I bet you if anything happened to one on ’em t’ other would go an’ die. They say ellums has mates, an’ all them big trees.”

Joe Banks had been looking at the pines all the way in; he had steered by them from point to point. Now he saw them just over Fish Rock, where the surf was whitening, and over the group of fish-houses, and began to steer straight inshore. The sea was less rough now, and after getting well into the shelter of the land he drew in his oar. Chauncey could pull the rest of the way without it. A sudden change in the wind filled the three-cornered sail, and they moved faster.

“She’ll make it now, herself, if you’ll just keep her straight, Chauncey; no, ‘t wa’n’t nothin’ but a flaw, was it? Guess I’d better help ye;” and he leaned on the oar once more, and took a steady sight of the familiar harbor marks.

“We’re right over one o’ my best lobster rocks,” said Chauncey, looking warm-blooded and cheerful again. “I’m satisfied not to be no further out; it’s beginnin’ to snow; see them big flakes a-comin’? I’ll tell the boys about your signin’ the paper; I do’ know’s you’d better resk it, either.”

“Why not?” said Joe Banks hastily. “I suppose you refer to me an’ Lizzie Packer; but she wouldn’t think no more o’ me for leavin’ my name off a proper neighborhood paper, nor her father, neither. You git them two pines let alone, and I’ll take care o’ Lizzie. I’ve got all the other boats and men to think of besides me, an’ I’ve got some pride anyway. I ain’t goin’ to have Bolton folks an’ all on ’em down to the Centre twittin’ us, nor twittin’ Packer; he’ll turn sour toward everybody the minute he does it. I know Packer; he’s rough and ugly, but he ain’t the worst man in town by a good sight. Anybody’d be all worked up to go through so much talk, and I’m kind o’ ‘fraid this minute his word’s passed to Ferris to have them trees down. But you show him the petition; ‘t will be kind of formal, and if that don’t do no good, I do’ know what will. There you git the sail in while I hold her stiddy, Chauncey.”

IV.

After a day or two of snow that turned to rain, and was followed by warmer weather, there came one of the respites which keep up New England hearts in December. The short, dark days seemed shorter and darker than usual that year, but one morning the sky had a look of Indian summer, the wind was in the south, and the cocks and hens of the Packer farm came boldly out into the sunshine, to crow and cackle before the barn. It was Friday morning, and the next day was the day before Christmas.

John Packer was always good-tempered when the wind was in the south. The milder air, which relaxed too much the dispositions of less energetic men, and made them depressed and worthless, only softened and tempered him into reasonableness. As he and his wife and daughter sat at breakfast, after he had returned from feeding the cattle and horses, he wore a pleasant look, and finally leaned back and said the warm weather made him feel boyish, and he believed that he would take the boat and go out fishing.

“I can haul her out and fix her up for winter when I git ashore,” he explained. “I’ve been distressed to think it wa’n’t done before. I expect she’s got some little ice in her now, there where she lays just under the edge of Joe Banks’s fish-house. I spoke to Joe, but he said she’d do till I could git down. No; I’ll turn her over, and make her snug for winter, and git a small boat o’ Joe. I ain’t goin’ out a great ways: just so’s I can git a cod or two. I always begin to think of a piece o’ new fish quick ‘s these mild days come; feels like the Janooary thaw.”