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Updated: May 22, 2025
She repeatedly extrudes a short oviduct, which oscillates right and left as though to graze the skin of the pod. An egg follows, which is abandoned as soon as laid. A hasty touch of the oviduct, first here, then there, on the green skin of the pea-pod, and that is all. The egg is left there, unprotected, in the full sunlight.
Besides, he could hardly hope to drag the pea-pod up on the beach and regain his bunk without attracting the notice of somebody in the cabin. He could imagine the talk of the others when he was out of hearing. "Started to run away, but got cold feet and sneaked back again. Hadn't the sand to carry it through! We'd better sack him when the four weeks are up."
Should he let himself go with it? Percy's indecision vanished. The tide of his own life had turned, like that of the ocean; slow and doubtful though the change had been, the current was at last setting the other way. Grasping the oar-handles tightly, he whirled the head of the pea-pod southward and started again for Tarpaulin Island.
But nothing was to be gained by yielding to discouragement. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore. "That wind is probably blowing from some point between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, and run straight before it, we'll be likely to hit the island." He swung the pea-pod stern to the breeze. "Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, Filippo!" But no buoys appeared.
Spurling and the others glanced at him casually; their interest was centered on assembling and loading their flotilla. "There's the Barracouta!" said Jim, pointing to a sloop moored a hundred yards away. "And there's Stinson's pea-pod tied to her stern. That yellow dory up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom's. He said we'd find her oars and fittings at Haskell's boatshop."
At last he rested on his oars. "We've missed it," he acknowledged, despondently. They were lost now in good earnest. It was one o'clock. The fog hung over them like a heavy gray pall, so damp and thick that it was almost stifling. Percy turned the pea-pod bow to the wind and began rowing again. "We must try to hold our own till it clears up," he observed, with attempted cheerfulness.
The pea blossom pleased him most, she was pink and white, she was pure and refined and belonged to the housewifely girls that look well, and still can make themselves useful in the kitchen. He had almost concluded to make love to her, when he saw hanging near to her, a pea-pod with its white blossom. "Who is that?" asked he. "That is my sister," said the pea blossom.
It was slack tide now and the pea-pod just held her own. Down on the breeze floated a distant, melancholy note, the voice of the whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge, two miles from Isle au Haut. Was it an invitation or a warning? Slowly at first, then faster, the stern of the boat swung round. The tide had turned. The flood would carry him north with but little effort on his part.
But I find, in dissecting a pea-blossom, that hidden in the center of it is a perfect miniature pea-pod, with the peas all in it, as perfect a pea-pod as it will ever be, only it is as tiny as a chatelaine ornament. Maize and some other things show the same precocity. This confirmation of the theologic theory is startling, and sets me meditating upon the moral possibilities of my garden.
She repeatedly extrudes a short oviduct, which oscillates right and left as though to graze the skin of the pod. An egg follows, which is abandoned as soon as laid. A hasty touch of the oviduct, first here, then there, on the green skin of the pea-pod, and that is all. The egg is left there, unprotected, in the full sunlight.
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