Part 2 out of 5
what Mrs. Rachel called "his imported orphan." But that had been
in springtime; and this was late autumn, and all the woods were
leafless and the fields sere and brown. The sun was just setting
with a great deal of purple and golden pomp behind the dark woods
west of Avonlea when a buggy drawn by a comfortable brown nag came
down the hill. Mrs. Rachel peered at it eagerly.
"There's Marilla getting home from the funeral," she said to her
husband, who was lying on the kitchen lounge. Thomas Lynde lay
more on the lounge nowadays than he had been used to do, but Mrs.
Rachel, who was so sharp at noticing anything beyond her own
household, had not as yet noticed this. "And she's got the twins
with her,. . .yes, there's Davy leaning over the dashboard
grabbing at the pony's tail and Marilla jerking him back.
Dora's sitting up on the seat as prim as you please. She always
looks as if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poor
Marilla is going to have her hands full this winter and no mistake.
Still, I don't see that she could do anything less than take them,
under the circumstances, and she'll have Anne to help her.
Anne's tickled to death over the whole business, and she has a
real knacky way with children, I must say. Dear me, it doesn't
seem a day since poor Matthew brought Anne herself home and
everybody laughed at the idea of Marilla bringing up a child.
And now she has adopted twins. You're never safe from being
surprised till you're dead."
The fat pony jogged over the bridge in Lynde's Hollow and along the
Green Gables lane. Marilla's face was rather grim. It was ten
miles from East Grafton and Davy Keith seemed to be possessed with
a passion for perpetual motion. It was beyond Marilla's power to
make him sit still and she had been in an agony the whole way lest
he fall over the back of the wagon and break his neck, or tumble
over the dashboard under the pony's heels. In despair she finally
threatened to whip him soundly when she got him home. Whereupon
Davy climbed into her lap, regardless of the reins, flung his
chubby arms about her neck and gave her a bear-like hug.
"I don't believe you mean it," he said, smacking her wrinkled cheek
affectionately. "You don't LOOK like a lady who'd whip a little
boy just 'cause he couldn't keep still. Didn't you find it awful
hard to keep still when you was only 's old as me?"
"No, I always kept still when I was told," said Marilla, trying to
speak sternly, albeit she felt her heart waxing soft within her
under Davy's impulsive caresses.
"Well, I s'pose that was 'cause you was a girl," said Davy,
squirming back to his place after another hug. "You WAS a
girl once, I s'pose, though it's awful funny to think of it.
Dora can sit still. . .but there ain't much fun in it _I_ don't think.
Seems to me it must be slow to be a girl. Here, Dora, let me liven
you up a bit."
Davy's method of "livening up" was to grasp Dora's curls in his
fingers and give them a tug. Dora shrieked and then cried.
"How can you be such a naughty boy and your poor mother just laid
in her grave this very day?" demanded Marilla despairingly.
"But she was glad to die," said Davy confidentially. "I know,
'cause she told me so. She was awful tired of being sick.
We'd a long talk the night before she died. She told me you was
going to take me and Dora for the winter and I was to be a good boy.
I'm going to be good, but can't you be good running round just as
well as sitting still? And she said I was always to be kind to Dora
and stand up for her, and I'm going to."
"Do you call pulling her hair being kind to her?"
"Well, I ain't going to let anybody else pull it," said Davy,
doubling up his fists and frowning. "They'd just better try it.
I didn't hurt her much. . .she just cried 'cause she's a girl.
I'm glad I'm a boy but I'm sorry I'm a twin. When Jimmy Sprott's
sister conterdicks him he just says, `I'm oldern you, so of course
I know better,' and that settles HER. But I can't tell Dora that,
and she just goes on thinking diffrunt from me. You might let me
drive the gee-gee for a spell, since I'm a man."
Altogether, Marilla was a thankful woman when she drove into her own yard,
where the wind of the autumn night was dancing with the brown leaves.
Anne was at the gate to meet them and lift the twins out. Dora submitted
calmly to be kissed, but Davy responded to Anne's welcome with one of his
hearty hugs and the cheerful announcement, "I'm Mr. Davy Keith."
At the supper table Dora behaved like a little lady, but Davy's
manners left much to be desired.
"I'm so hungry I ain't got time to eat p'litely," he said when Marilla
reproved him. "Dora ain't half as hungry as I am. Look at all the
ex'cise I took on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy.
We haven't had any cake at home for ever'n ever so long, 'cause
mother was too sick to make it and Mrs. Sprott said it was as much
as she could do to bake our bread for us. And Mrs. Wiggins never
puts any plums in HER cakes. Catch her! Can I have another piece?"
Marilla would have refused but Anne cut a generous second slice.
However, she reminded Davy that he ought to say "Thank you" for it.
Davy merely grinned at her and took a huge bite. When he had
finished the slice he said,
"If you'll give me ANOTHER piece I'll say thank you for IT."
"No, you have had plenty of cake," said Marilla in a tone which
Anne knew and Davy was to learn to be final.
Davy winked at Anne, and then, leaning over the table, snatched
Dora's first piece of cake, from which she had just taken one
dainty little bite, out of her very fingers and, opening his mouth
to the fullest extent, crammed the whole slice in. Dora's lip
trembled and Marilla was speechless with horror. Anne promptly
exclaimed, with her best "schoolma'am" air,
"Oh, Davy, gentlemen don't do things like that."
"I know they don't," said Davy, as soon as he could speak,
"but I ain't a gemplum."
"But don't you want to be?" said shocked Anne.
"Course I do. But you can't be a gemplum till you grow up."
"Oh, indeed you can," Anne hastened to say, thinking she saw a chance
to sow good seed betimes. "You can begin to be a gentleman when you
are a little boy. And gentlemen NEVER snatch things from ladies. . .
or forget to say thank you. . .or pull anybody's hair."
"They don't have much fun, that's a fact," said Davy frankly.
"I guess I'll wait till I'm grown up to be one."
Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece of cake for Dora.
She did not feel able to cope with Davy just then. It had been a
hard day for her, what with the funeral and the long drive.
At that moment she looked forward to the future with a pessimism
that would have done credit to Eliza Andrews herself.
The twins were not noticeably alike, although both were fair.
Dora had long sleek curls that never got out of order. Davy had
a crop of fuzzy little yellow ringlets all over his round head.
Dora's hazel eyes were gentle and mild; Davy's were as roguish
and dancing as an elf's. Dora's nose was straight, Davy's a
positive snub; Dora had a "prunes and prisms" mouth, Davy's was
all smiles; and besides, he had a dimple in one cheek and none in the
other, which gave him a dear, comical, lopsided look when he laughed.
Mirth and mischief lurked in every corner of his little face.
"They'd better go to bed," said Marilla, who thought it was the
easiest way to dispose of them. "Dora will sleep with me and you
can put Davy in the west gable. You're not afraid to sleep alone,
are you, Davy?"
"No; but I ain't going to bed for ever so long yet," said Davy comfortably.
"Oh, yes, you are." That was all the muchtried Marilla said, but
something in her tone squelched even Davy. He trotted obediently
upstairs with Anne."
When I'm grown up the very first thing I'm going to do is stay up ALL
night just to see what it would be like," he told her confidentially.
In after years Marilla never thought of that first week of the
twins' sojourn at Green Gables without a shiver. Not that it
really was so much worse than the weeks that followed it; but it
seemed so by reason of its novelty. There was seldom a waking
minute of any day when Davy was not in mischief or devising it;
but his first notable exploit occurred two days after his arrival,
on Sunday morning. . .a fine, warm day, as hazy and mild as September.
Anne dressed him for church while Marilla attended to Dora.
Davy at first objected strongly to having his face washed.
"Marilla washed it yesterday. . .and Mrs. Wiggins scoured me with
hard soap the day of the funeral. That's enough for one week.
I don't see the good of being so awful clean. It's lots more
comfable being dirty."
"Paul Irving washes his face every day of his own accord," said
Davy had been an inmate of Green Gables for little over forty-eight
hours; but he already worshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom
he had heard Anne praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival.
If Paul Irving washed his face every day, that settled it. He, Davy
Keith, would do it too, if it killed him. The same consideration
induced him to submit meekly to the other details of his toilet,
and he was really a handsome little lad when all was done.
Anne felt an almost maternal pride in him as she led him into
the old Cuthbert pew.
Davy behaved quite well at first, being occupied in casting covert
glances at all the small boys within view and wondering which was
Paul Irving. The first two hymns and the Scripture reading passed
off uneventfully. Mr. Allan was praying when the sensation came.
Lauretta White was sitting in front of Davy, her head slightly bent
and her fair hair hanging in two long braids, between which a
tempting expanse of white neck showed, encased in a loose lace
frill. Lauretta was a fat, placid-looking child of eight, who had
conducted herself irreproachably in church from the very first day
her mother carried her there, an infant of six months.
Davy thrust his hand into his pocket and produced. . .a
caterpillar, a furry, squirming caterpillar. Marilla saw
and clutched at him but she was too late. Davy dropped the
caterpillar down Lauretta's neck.
Right into the middle of Mr. Allan's prayer burst a series of
piercing shrieks. The minister stopped appalled and opened his eyes.
Every head in the congregation flew up. Lauretta White was dancing
up and down in her pew, clutching frantically at the back of her dress.
"Ow. . .mommer. . .mommer. . .ow. . .take it off. . .ow. . .get it
out. . .ow. . .that bad boy put it down my neck. . .ow. . .mommer.
. .it's going further down. . .ow. . .ow. . .ow...."
Mrs. White rose and with a set face carried the hysterical,
writhing Lauretta out of church. Her shrieks died away in the
distance and Mr. Allan proceeded with the service. But everybody
felt that it was a failure that day. For the first time in her
life Marilla took no notice of the text and Anne sat with scarlet
cheeks of mortification.
When they got home Marilla put Davy to bed and made him stay there
for the rest of the day. She would not give him any dinner but
allowed him a plain tea of bread and milk. Anne carried it to him
and sat sorrowfully by him while he ate it with an unrepentant relish.
But Anne's mournful eyes troubled him.
"I s'pose," he said reflectively, "that Paul Irving wouldn't have
dropped a caterpillar down a girl's neck in church, would he?"
"Indeed he wouldn't," said Anne sadly.
"Well, I'm kind of sorry I did it, then," conceded Davy. "But it
was such a jolly big caterpillar. . .I picked him up on the church
steps just as we went in. It seemed a pity to waste him. And say,
wasn't it fun to hear that girl yell?"
Tuesday afternoon the Aid Society met at Green Gables. Anne hurried
home from school, for she knew that Marilla would need all the assistance
she could give. Dora, neat and proper, in her nicely starched white dress
and black sash, was sitting with the members of the Aid in the parlor,
speaking demurely when spoken to, keeping silence when not, and in every
way comporting herself as a model child. Davy, blissfully dirty, was
making mud pies in the barnyard.
"I told him he might," said Marilla wearily. "I thought it would
keep him out of worse mischief. He can only get dirty at that.
We'll have our teas over before we call him to his. Dora can have
hers with us, but I would never dare to let Davy sit down at the
table with all the Aids here."
When Anne went to call the Aids to tea she found that Dora was not
in the parlor. Mrs. Jasper Bell said Davy had come to the front
door and called her out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the
pantry resulted in a decision to let both children have their teas
together later on.
Tea was half over when the dining room was invaded by a forlorn
figure. Marilla and Anne stared in dismay, the Aids in amazement.
Could that be Dora. . .that sobbing nondescript in a drenched,
dripping dress and hair from which the water was streaming on
Marilla's new coin-spot rug?
"Dora, what has happened to you?" cried Anne, with a guilty glance
at Mrs. Jasper Bell, whose family was said to be the only one in
the world in which accidents never occurred.
"Davy made me walk the pigpen fence," wailed Dora. "I didn't want
to but he called me a fraid-cat. And I fell off into the pigpen and
my dress got all dirty and the pig runned right over me. My dress
was just awful but Davy said if I'd stand under the pump he'd wash
it clean, and I did and he pumped water all over me but my dress
ain't a bit cleaner and my pretty sash and shoes is all spoiled."
Anne did the honors of the table alone for the rest of the meal
while Marilla went upstairs and redressed Dora in her old clothes.
Davy was caught and sent to bed without any supper. Anne went to
his room at twilight and talked to him seriously. . .a method in
which she had great faith, not altogether unjustified by results.
She told him she felt very badly over his conduct.
"I feel sorry now myself," admitted Davy, "but the trouble is I
never feel sorry for doing things till after I've did them.
Dora wouldn't help me make pies, cause she was afraid of messing her
clo'es and that made me hopping mad. I s'pose Paul Irving wouldn't
have made HIS sister walk a pigpen fence if he knew she'd fall in?"
"No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul is a perfect
Davy screwed his eyes tight shut and seemed to meditate on this for
a time. Then he crawled up and put his arms about Anne's neck,
snuggling his flushed little face down on her shoulder.
"Anne, don't you like me a little bit, even if I ain't a good boy like Paul?"
"Indeed I do," said Anne sincerely. Somehow, it was impossible to help
liking Davy. "But I'd like you better still if you weren't so naughty."
"I. . .did something else today," went on Davy in a muffled voice.
"I'm sorry now but I'm awful scared to tell you. You won't be very
cross, will you? And you won't tell Marilla, will you?"
"I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tell her. But I think I
can promise you I won't if you promise me that you will never do it
again, whatever it is."
"No, I never will. Anyhow, it's not likely I'd find any more of
them this year. I found this one on the cellar steps."
"Davy, what is it you've done?"
"I put a toad in Marilla's bed. You can go and take it out if you like.
But say, Anne, wouldn't it be fun to leave it there?"
"Davy Keith!" Anne sprang from Davy's clinging arms and flew across
the hall to Marilla's room. The bed was slightly rumpled. She
threw back the blankets in nervous haste and there in very truth
was the toad, blinking at her from under a pillow.
"How can I carry that awful thing out?" moaned Anne with a shudder.
The fire shovel suggested itself to her and she crept down to get it
while Marilla was busy in the pantry. Anne had her own troubles carrying
that toad downstairs, for it hopped off the shovel three times and
once she thought she had lost it in the hall. When she finally
deposited it in the cherry orchard she drew a long breath of relief.
"If Marilla knew she'd never feel safe getting into bed again in
her life. I'm so glad that little sinner repented in time.
There's Diana signaling to me from her window. I'm glad. . .I
really feel the need of some diversion, for what with Anthony Pye
in school and Davy Keith at home my nerves have had about all they
can endure for one day."
A Question of Color
"That old nuisance of a Rachel Lynde was here again today,
pestering me for a subscription towards buying a carpet for the
vestry room," said Mr. Harrison wrathfully. "I detest that woman
more than anybody I know. She can put a whole sermon, text, comment,
and application, into six words, and throw it at you like a brick."
Anne, who was perched on the edge of the veranda, enjoying the charm
of a mild west wind blowing across a newly ploughed field on a gray
November twilight and piping a quaint little melody among the twisted
firs below the garden, turned her dreamy face over her shoulder.
"The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lynde don't understand one another,"
she explained. "That is always what is wrong when people don't
like each other. I didn't like Mrs. Lynde at first either; but as
soon as I came to understand her I learned to."
"Mrs. Lynde may be an acquired taste with some folks; but I didn't
keep on eating bananas because I was told I'd learn to like them if
I did," growled Mr. Harrison." And as for understanding her, I
understand that she is a confirmed busybody and I told her so."
"Oh, that must have hurt her feelings very much," said Anne
reproachfully. "How could you say such a thing? I said some
dreadful things to Mrs. Lynde long ago but it was when I had
lost my temper. I couldn't say them DELIBERATELY."
"It was the truth and I believe in telling the truth to everybody."
"But you don't tell the whole truth," objected Anne. "You only
tell the disagreeable part of the truth. Now, you've told me a
dozen times that my hair was red, but you've never once told me
that I had a nice nose."
"I daresay you know it without any telling," chuckled Mr. Harrison.
"I know I have red hair too. . .although it's MUCH darker than it
used to be. . .so there's no need of telling me that either."
"Well, well, I'll try and not mention it again since you're so
sensitive. You must excuse me, Anne. I've got a habit of being
outspoken and folks mustn't mind it."
"But they can't help minding it. And I don't think it's any help
that it's your habit. What would you think of a person who went
about sticking pins and needles into people and saying, `Excuse me,
you mustn't mind it. . .it's just a habit I've got.' You'd think
he was crazy, wouldn't you? And as for Mrs. Lynde being a busybody,
perhaps she is. But did you tell her she had a very kind heart and
always helped the poor, and never said a word when Timothy Cotton
stole a crock of butter out of her dairy and told his wife he'd
bought it from her? Mrs. Cotton cast it up to her the next time
they met that it tasted of turnips and Mrs. Lynde just said she
was sorry it had turned out so poorly."
"I suppose she has some good qualities," conceded Mr. Harrison grudgingly.
"Most folks have. I have some myself, though you might never suspect it.
But anyhow I ain't going to give anything to that carpet. Folks are
everlasting begging for money here, it seems to me. How's your project
of painting the hall coming on?"
"Splendidly. We had a meeting of the A.V.I.S. last Friday night and
found that we had plenty of money subscribed to paint the and shingle
the roof too. MOST people gave very liberally, Mr. Harrison."
Anne was a sweet-souled lass, but she could instill some venom into
innocent italics when occasion required.
"What color are you going to have it?"
"We have decided on a very pretty green. The roof will be dark red,
of course. Mr. Roger Pye is going to get the paint in town today."
"Who's got the job?"
"Mr. Joshua Pye of Carmody. He has nearly finished the shingling.
We had to give him the contract, for every one of the Pyes. . .
and there are four families, you know. . .said they wouldn't give
a cent unless Joshua got it. They had subscribed twelve dollars
between them and we thought that was too much to lose, although
some people think we shouldn't have given in to the Pyes.
Mrs. Lynde says they try to run everything."
"The main question is will this Joshua do his work well. If he does
I don't see that it matters whether his name is Pye or Pudding."
"He has the reputation of being a good workman, though they say
he's a very peculiar man. He hardly ever talks."
"He's peculiar enough all right then," said Mr. Harrison drily.
"Or at least, folks here will call him so. I never was much of a
talker till I came to Avonlea and then I had to begin in self-defense
or Mrs. Lynde would have said I was dumb and started a subscription
to have me taught sign language. You're not going yet, Anne?"
"I must. I have some sewing to do for Dora this evening. Besides,
Davy is probably breaking Marilla's heart with some new mischief by
this time. This morning the first thing he said was, `Where does
the dark go, Anne? I want to know.' I told him it went around to
the other side of the world but after breakfast he declared it
didn't. . .that it went down the well. Marilla says she caught
him hanging over the well-box four times today, trying to reach
down to the dark."
"He's a limb," declared Mr. Harrison. "He came over here
yesterday and pulled six feathers out of Ginger's tail before I
could get in from the barn. The poor bird has been moping ever
since. Those children must be a sight of trouble to you folks."
"Everything that's worth having is some trouble," said Anne,
secretly resolving to forgive Davy's next offence, whatever it
might be, since he had avenged her on Ginger.
Mr. Roger Pye brought the hall paint home that night and Mr. Joshua
Pye, a surly, taciturn man, began painting the next day. He was
not disturbed in his task. The hall was situated on what was called
"the lower road." In late autumn this road was always muddy and wet,
and people going to Carmody traveled by the longer "upper" road.
The hall was so closely surrounded by fir woods that it was invisible
unless you were near it. Mr. Joshua Pye painted away in the solitude
and independence that were so dear to his unsociable heart.
Friday afternoon he finished his job and went home to Carmody.
Soon after his departure Mrs. Rachel Lynde drove by, having braved
the mud of the lower road out of curiosity to see what the hall
looked like in its new coat of paint. When she rounded the spruce
curve she saw.
The sight affected Mrs. Lynde oddly. She dropped the reins, held
up her hands, and said "Gracious Providence!" She stared as if she
could not believe her eyes. Then she laughed almost hysterically.
"There must be some mistake. . .there must. I knew those Pyes would
make a mess of things."
Mrs. Lynde drove home, meeting several people on the road and
stopping to tell them about the hall. The news flew like wildfire.
Gilbert Blythe, poring over a text book at home, heard it from his
father's hired boy at sunset, and rushed breathlessly to Green
Gables, joined on the way by Fred Wright. They found Diana Barry,
Jane Andrews, and Anne Shirley, despair personified, at the yard
gate of Green Gables, under the big leafless willows.
"It isn't true surely, Anne?" exclaimed Gilbert.
"It is true," answered Anne, looking like the muse of tragedy.
"Mrs. Lynde called on her way from Carmody to tell me. Oh, it is
simply dreadful! What is the use of trying to improve anything?"
"What is dreadful?" asked Oliver Sloane, arriving at this moment
with a bandbox he had brought from town for Marilla.
"Haven't you heard?" said Jane wrathfully. "Well, its simply this.
. .Joshua Pye has gone and painted the hall blue instead of green.
. .a deep, brilliant blue, the shade they use for painting carts
and wheelbarrows. And Mrs. Lynde says it is the most hideous
color for a building, especially when combined with a red roof,
that she ever saw or imagined. You could simply have knocked me
down with a feather when I heard it. It's heartbreaking, after all
the trouble we've had."
"How on earth could such a mistake have happened?" wailed Diana.
The blame of this unmerciful disaster was eventually narrowed down
to the Pyes. The Improvers had decided to use Morton-Harris paints
and the Morton-Harris paint cans were numbered according to a color
card. A purchaser chose his shade on the card and ordered by the
accompanying number. Number 147 was the shade of green desired and
when Mr. Roger Pye sent word to the Improvers by his son, John
Andrew, that he was going to town and would get their paint for
them, the Improvers told John Andrew to tell his father to get 147.
John Andrew always averred that he did so, but Mr. Roger Pye as
stanchly declared that John Andrew told him 157; and there the
matter stands to this day.
That night there was blank dismay in every Avonlea house where an
Improver lived. The gloom at Green Gables was so intense that it
quenched even Davy. Anne wept and would not be comforted.
"I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen, Marilla," she sobbed.
"It is so mortifying. And it sounds the death knell of our society.
We'll simply be laughed out of existence."
In life, as in dreams, however, things often go by contraries. The
Avonlea people did not laugh; they were too angry. Their money had
gone to paint the hall and consequently they felt themselves bitterly
aggrieved by the mistake. Public indignation centered on the Pyes.
Roger Pye and John Andrew had bungled the matter between them;
and as for Joshua Pye, he must be a born fool not to suspect
there was something wrong when he opened the cans and saw the color
of the paint. Joshua Pye, when thus animadverted upon, retorted
that the Avonlea taste in colors was no business of his, whatever
his private opinion might be; he had been hired to paint the hall,
not to talk about it; and he meant to have his money for it.
The Improvers paid him his money in bitterness of spirit, after
consulting Mr. Peter Sloane, who was a magistrate.
"You'll have to pay it," Peter told him. "You can't hold him
responsible for the mistake, since he claims he was never told
what the color was supposed to be but just given the cans and
told to go ahead. But it's a burning shame and that hall
certainly does look awful."
The luckless Improvers expected that Avonlea would be more
prejudiced than ever against them; but instead, public sympathy
veered around in their favor. People thought the eager,
enthusiastic little band who had worked so hard for their object
had been badly used. Mrs. Lynde told them to keep on and show
the Pyes that there really were people in the world who could
do things without making a muddle of them. Mr. Major Spencer sent
them word that he would clean out all the stumps along the road
front of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own expense;
and Mrs. Hiram Sloane called at the school one day and beckoned
Anne mysteriously out into the porch to tell her that if the "Sassiety"
wanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroads in the spring they
needn't be afraid of her cow, for she would see that the marauding
animal was kept within safe bounds. Even Mr. Harrison chuckled,
if he chuckled at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly.
"Never mind, Anne. Most paints fade uglier every year but that
blue is as ugly as it can be to begin with, so it's bound to fade
prettier. And the roof is shingled and painted all right. Folks
will be able to sit in the hall after this without being leaked on.
You've accomplished so much anyhow."
"But Avonlea's blue hall will be a byword in all the neighboring
settlements from this time out," said Anne bitterly.
And it must be confessed that it was.
Davy in Search of a Sensation
Anne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one November
afternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing.
The day had been a good day; all had gone well in her little kingdom.
St. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the
question of his name; Prillie Rogerson's face had been so puffed
up from the effects of toothache that she did not once try to
coquette with the boys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw had met
with only ONE accident. . .spilling a dipper of water over
the floor. . .and Anthony Pye had not been in school at all.
"What a nice month this November has been!" said Anne, who had
never quite got over her childish habit of talking to herself.
"November is usually such a disagreeable month. . .as if the year
had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do
nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old
gracefully. . .just like a stately old lady who knows she can be
charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've had lovely days
and delicious twilights. This last fortnight has been so peaceful,
and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really think he
is improving a great deal. How quiet the woods are today. . .
not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops!
It sounds like surf on a faraway shore. How dear the woods are!
You beautiful trees! I love every one of you as a friend."
Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss its
cream-white trunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her
"Anne Shirley, you're only pretending to be grown up. I believe
when you're alone you're as much a little girl as you ever were."
"Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at
once," said Anne gaily. "You see, I was little for fourteen years
and I've only been grown-uppish for scarcely three. I'm sure I
shall always feel like a child in the woods. These walks home
from school are almost the only time I have for dreaming. . .
except the half-hour or so before I go to sleep. I'm so busy
with teaching and studying and helping Marilla with the
twins that I haven't another moment for imagining things.
You don't know what splendid adventures I have for a little
while after I go to bed in the east gable every night. I always
imagine I'm something very brilliant and triumphant and splendid. . .
a great prima donna or a Red Cross nurse or a queen. Last night
I was a queen. It's really splendid to imagine you are a queen.
You have all the fun of it without any of the inconveniences and
you can stop being a queen whenever you want to, which you couldn't
in real life. But here in the woods I like best to imagine quite
different things. . .I'm a dryad living in an old pine, or a little
brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf. That white birch you
caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is,
she's a tree and I'm a girl, but that's no real difference.
Where are you going, Diana?"
"Down to the Dicksons. I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress.
Can't you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?"
"I might. . .since Fred Wright is away in town," said Anne with a
rather too innocent face.
Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. She did not look
Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons' that evening, but
she did not. When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of
affairs which banished every other thought from her mind. Marilla
met her in the yard. . .a wild-eyed Marilla.
"Anne, Dora is lost!"
"Dora! Lost!" Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard
gate, and detected merriment in his eyes. "Davy, do you know where
"No, I don't," said Davy stoutly. "I haven't seen her since dinner
time, cross my heart."
"I've been away ever since one o'clock," said Marilla. "Thomas Lynde
took sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once.
When I left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy
was making mud pies behind the barn. I only got home half an hour ago
. . .and no Dora to be seen. Davy declares he never saw her since I left."
"Neither I did," avowed Davy solemnly.
"She must be somewhere around," said Anne. "She would never wander
far away alone. . .you know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen
asleep in one of the rooms."
Marilla shook her head.
"I've hunted the whole house through. But she may be in some of
A thorough search followed. Every corner of house, yard, and
outbuildings was ransacked by those two distracted people. Anne
roved the orchards and the Haunted Wood, calling Dora's name.
Marilla took a candle and explored the cellar. Davy accompanied
each of them in turn, and was fertile in thinking of places where
Dora could possibly be. Finally they met again in the yard.
"It's a most mysterious thing," groaned Marilla.
"Where can she be?" said Anne miserably
"Maybe she's tumbled into the well," suggested Davy cheerfully.
Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other's eyes.
The thought had been with them both through their entire
search but neither had dared to put it into words.
"She. . .she might have," whispered Marilla.
Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the wellbox and peered over.
The bucket sat on the shelf inside. Far down below was a tiny
glimmer of still water. The Cuthbert well was the deepest in
Avonlea. If Dora. . .but Anne could not face the idea.
She shuddered and turned away.
"Run across for Mr. Harrison," said Marilla, wringing her hands.
"Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away. . .they went to town today.
I'll go for Mr. Barry."
Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil of rope to which
was attached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end
of a grubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken
with horror and dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy,
astride the gate, watched the group with a face indicative of huge
Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved air.
"She can't be down there. It's a mighty curious thing where she
could have got to, though. Look here, young man, are you sure
you've no idea where your sister is?"
"I've told you a dozen times that I haven't," said Davy, with an
injured air. "Maybe a tramp come and stole her."
"Nonsense," said Marilla sharply, relieved from her horrible fear
of the well. "Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to
Mr. Harrison's? She has always been talking about his parrot ever
since that time you took her over"
"I can't believe Dora would venture so far alone but I'll go over
and see," said Anne.
Nobody was looking at Davy just then or it would have been seen that
a very decided change came over his face. He quietly slipped off
the gate and ran, as fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn.
Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in no
very hopeful frame of mind. The house was locked, the window
shades were down, and there was no sign of anything living about
the place. She stood on the veranda and called Dora loudly.
Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with sudden
fierceness; but between his outbursts Anne heard a plaintive cry
from the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as
a toolhouse. Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up a
small mortal with a tearstained face who was sitting forlornly on
an upturned nail keg.
"Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us! How came you to be here?"
"Davy and I came over to see Ginger," sobbed Dora, "but we couldn't
see him after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door.
And then Davy brought me here and run out and shut the door; and I
couldn't get out. I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I'm
so hungry and cold; and I thought you'd never come, Anne."
"Davy?" But Anne could say no more. She carried Dora home with a
heavy heart. Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was
drowned out in the pain caused by Davy's behavior. The freak of
shutting Dora up might easily have been pardoned. But Davy had
told falsehoods. . .downright coldblooded falsehoods about it.
That was the ugly fact and Anne could not shut her eyes to it.
She could have sat down and cried with sheer disappointment.
She had grown to love Davy dearly. . .how dearly she had not
known until this minute. . .and it hurt her unbearably to
discover that he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.
Marilla listened to Anne's tale in a silence that boded no good
Davy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily
dealt with. When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the
sobbing, shivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed.
Then she returned to the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in,
leading, or rather pulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she
had just found hidden away in the darkest corner of the stable.
She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went
and sat down by the east window. Anne was sitting limply by the
west window. Between them stood the culprit. His back was toward
Marilla and it was a meek, subdued, frightened back; but his face
was toward Anne and although it was a little shamefaced there was a
gleam of comradeship in Davy's eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong
and was going to be punished for it, but could count on a laugh over
it all with Anne later on.
But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne's gray eyes,
as there might have done had it been only a question of mischief.
There was something else. . .something ugly and repulsive.
"How could you behave so, Davy?" she asked sorrowfully.
Davy squirmed uncomfortably.
"I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful quiet here for
so long that I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare.
It was, too."
In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over the recollection.
"But you told a falsehood about it, Davy," said Anne, more sorrowfully
Davy looked puzzled.
"What's a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper?"
"I mean a story that was not true."
"Course I did," said Davy frankly. "If I hadn't you wouldn't have
been scared. I HAD to tell it."
Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions.
Davy's impenitent attitude gave the finishing touch.
Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes.
"Oh, Davy, how could you?" she said, with a quiver in her voice.
"Don't you know how wrong it was?"
Davy was aghast. Anne crying. . .he had made Anne cry! A flood of real
remorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it.
He rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms around
her neck, and burst into tears.
"I didn't know it was wrong to tell whoppers," he sobbed.
"How did you expect me to know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott's
children told them REGULAR every day, and cross their hearts too.
I s'pose Paul Irving never tells whoppers and here I've been trying
awful hard to be as good as him, but now I s'pose you'll never
love me again. But I think you might have told me it was wrong.
I'm awful sorry I've made you cry, Anne, and I'll never tell a
Davy buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried stormily.
Anne, in a sudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight
and looked over his curly thatch at Marilla.
"He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla.
I think we must forgive him for that part of it this time
if he will promise never to say what isn't true again."
"I never will, now that I know it's bad," asseverated Davy between sobs.
"If you ever catch me telling a whopper again you can. . ." Davy groped
mentally for a suitable penance. . ."you can skin me alive, Anne."
"Don't say `whopper,' Davy. . .say `falsehood,'" said the schoolma'am.
"Why?" queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up with
a tearstained, investigating face. "Why ain't whopper as good as
falsehood? I want to know. It's just as big a word."
"It's slang; and it's wrong for little boys to use slang."
"There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do," said Davy with a sigh.
"I never s'posed there was so many. I'm sorry it's wrong to tell whop. . .
falsehoods, 'cause it's awful handy, but since it is I'm never going to
tell any more. What are you going to do to me for telling them this time?
I want to know." Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla.
"I don't want to be too hard on the child," said Marilla. "I
daresay nobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and
those Sprott children were no fit companions for him. Poor Mary
was too sick to train him properly and I presume you couldn't
expect a six-year-old child to know things like that by instinct.
I suppose we'll just have to assume he doesn't know ANYTHING right
and begin at the beginning. But he'll have to be punished for
shutting Dora up, and I can't think of any way except to send him
to bed without his supper and we've done that so often. Can't you
suggest something else, Anne? I should think you ought to be able
to, with that imagination you're always talking of."
"But punishments are so horrid and I like to imagine only pleasant things,"
said Anne, cuddling Davy. "There are so many unpleasant things in the
world already that there is no use in imagining any more."
In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to remain until
noon next day. He evidently did some thinking, for when Anne went
up to her room a little later she heard him calling her name softly.
Going in, she found him sitting up in bed, with his elbows on his
knees and his chin propped on his hands.
"Anne," he said solemnly, "is it wrong for everybody to tell whop. . .
falsehoods? I want to know"
"Is it wrong for a grown-up person?"
"Then," said Davy decidedly, "Marilla is bad, for SHE tells them.
And she's worse'n me, for I didn't know it was wrong but she does."
"Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life," said Anne
"She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful
WOULD happen to me if I didn't say my prayers every night. And I
haven't said them for over a week, just to see what would happen. . .
and nothing has," concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone.
Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it
would be fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla's reputation.
"Why, Davy Keith," she said solemnly, "something dreadful HAS happened
to you this very day"
Davy looked sceptical.
"I s'pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper," he said
scornfully, "but THAT isn't dreadful. Course, I don't like it,
but I've been sent to bed so much since I come here that I'm getting
used to it. And you don't save anything by making me go without
supper either, for I always eat twice as much for breakfast."
"I don't mean your being sent to bed. I mean the fact that you
told a falsehood today. And, Davy,". . .Anne leaned over the
footboard of the bed and shook her finger impressively at the
culprit. . ."for a boy to tell what isn't true is almost the
worst thing that could HAPPEN to him. . .almost the very worst.
So you see Marilla told you the truth."
"But I thought the something bad would be exciting," protested Davy
in an injured tone.
"Marilla isn't to blame for what you thought. Bad things aren't
always exciting. They're very often just nasty and stupid."
"It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well, though,"
said Davy, hugging his knees.
Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsed
on the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached.
"I wish you'd tell me the joke," said Marilla, a little grimly.
"I haven't seen much to laugh at today."
"You'll laugh when you hear this," assured Anne. And Marilla did
laugh, which showed how much her education had advanced since the
adoption of Anne. But she sighed immediately afterwards.
"I suppose I shouldn't have told him that, although I heard a
minister say it to a child once. But he did aggravate me so. It
was that night you were at the Carmody concert and I was putting
him to bed. He said he didn't see the good of praying until he got
big enough to be of some importance to God. Anne, I do not know
what we are going to do with that child. I never saw his beat.
I'm feeling clean discouraged."
"Oh, don't say that, Marilla. Remember how bad I was when I came here."
"Anne, you never were bad. . .NEVER. I see that now, when I've
learned what real badness is. You were always getting into
terrible scrapes, I'll admit, but your motive was always good.
Davy is just bad from sheer love of it."
"Oh, no, I don't think it is real badness with him either," pleaded Anne.
"It's just mischief. And it is rather quiet for him here, you know.
He has no other boys to play with and his mind has to have something
to occupy it. Dora is so prim and proper she is no good for a boy's playmate. I really think it
would be better to let them go to school, Marilla."
"No," said Marilla resolutely, "my father always said that no
child should be cooped up in the four walls of a school until
it was seven years old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing.
The twins can have a few lessons at home but go to school they
shan't till they're seven."
"Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then," said Anne
cheerfully. "With all his faults he's really a dear little chap.
I can't help loving him. Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say,
but honestly, I like Davy better than Dora, for all she's so good."
"I don't know but that I do, myself," confessed Marilla, "and it
isn't fair, for Dora isn't a bit of trouble. There couldn't be a
better child and you'd hardly know she was in the house."
"Dora is too good," said Anne. "She'd behave just as well if there
wasn't a soul to tell her what to do. She was born already brought
up, so she doesn't need us; and I think," concluded Anne, hitting
on a very vital truth, "that we always love best the people who
need us. Davy needs us badly."
"He certainly needs something," agreed Marilla. "Rachel Lynde
would say it was a good spanking."
Facts and Fancies
"Teaching is really very interesting work," wrote Anne to a Queen's
Academy chum. "Jane says she thinks it is monotonous but I don't
find it so. Something funny is almost sure to happen every day,
and the children say such amusing things. Jane says she punishes
her pupils when they make funny speeches, which is probably why she
finds teaching monotonous. This afternoon little Jimmy Andrews was
trying to spell `speckled' and couldn't manage it. `Well,' he said
finally, `I can't spell it but I know what it means.'
"`What?' I asked.
"`St. Clair Donnell's face, miss.'
"St. Clair is certainly very much freckled, although I try to
prevent the others from commenting on it. . .for I was freckled
once and well do I remember it. But I don't think St. Clair minds.
It was because Jimmy called him `St. Clair' that St. Clair pounded
him on the way home from school. I heard of the pounding, but not
officially, so I don't think I'll take any notice of it.
"Yesterday I was trying to teach Lottie Wright to do addition.
I said, `If you had three candies in one hand and two in the other,
how many would you have altogether?' `A mouthful,' said Lottie.
And in the nature study class, when I asked them to give me a good
reason why toads shouldn't be killed, Benjie Sloane gravely answered,
`Because it would rain the next day.'
"It's so hard not to laugh, Stella. I have to save up all my amusement
until I get home, and Marilla says it makes her nervous to hear wild shrieks
of mirth proceeding from the east gable without any apparent cause.
She says a man in Grafton went insane once and that was how it began.
"Did you know that Thomas a Becket was canonized as a SNAKE?
Rose Bell says he was. . .also that William Tyndale WROTE the
New Testament. Claude White says a `glacier' is a man who puts
in window frames!
"I think the most difficult thing in teaching, as well as the most
interesting, is to get the children to tell you their real thoughts
about things. One stormy day last week I gathered them around me
at dinner hour and tried to get them to talk to me just as if I
were one of themselves. I asked them to tell me the things
they most wanted. Some of the answers were commonplace enough
. . . dolls, ponies, and skates. Others were decidedly original.
Hester Boulter wanted `to wear her Sunday dress every day and eat
in the sitting room.' Hannah Bell wanted `to be good without having
to take any trouble about it.' Marjory White, aged ten, wanted to
be a WIDOW. Questioned why, she gravely said that if you weren't
married people called you an old maid, and if you were your husband
bossed you; but if you were a widow there'd be no danger of either.
The most remarkable wish was Sally Bell's. She wanted a 'honeymoon.'
I asked her if she knew what it was and she said she thought it was
an extra nice kind of bicycle because her cousin in Montreal went on
a honeymoon when he was married and he had always had the very latest
"Another day I asked them all to tell me the naughtiest thing they
had ever done. I couldn't get the older ones to do so, but the
third class answered quite freely. Eliza Bell had `set fire to her
aunt's carded rolls.' Asked if she meant to do it she said, `not
altogether.' She just tried a little end to see how it would burn
and the whole bundle blazed up in a jiffy. Emerson Gillis had
spent ten cents for candy when he should have put it in his
missionary box. Annetta Bell's worst crime was `eating some
blueberries that grew in the graveyard.' Willie White had `slid
down the sheephouse roof a lot of times with his Sunday trousers on.'
`But I was punished for it 'cause I had to wear patched pants
to Sunday School all summer, and when you're punished for a thing
you don't have to repent of it,' declared Willie.
"I wish you could see some of their compositions. . .so much do
I wish it that I'll send you copies of some written recently.
Last week I told the fourth class I wanted them to write me letters
about anything they pleased, adding by way of suggestion that they
might tell me of some place they had visited or some interesting
thing or person they had seen. They were to write the letters on
real note paper, seal them in an envelope, and address them to me,
all without any assistance from other people. Last Friday morning
I found a pile of letters on my desk and that evening I realized
afresh that teaching has its pleasures as well as its pains. Those
compositions would atone for much. Here is Ned Clay's, address,
spelling, and grammar as originally penned.
"`Miss teacher ShiRley
p.e. Island can
"`Dear teacher I think I will write you a composition about birds.
birds is very useful animals. my cat catches birds. His name is
William but pa calls him tom. he is oll striped and he got one of
his ears froz of last winter. only for that he would be a
good-looking cat. My unkle has adopted a cat. it come to his
house one day and woudent go away and unkle says it has forgot more
than most people ever knowed. he lets it sleep on his rocking
chare and my aunt says he thinks more of it than he does of his
children. that is not right. we ought to be kind to cats and give
them new milk but we ought not be better to them than to our
children. this is oll I can think of so no more at present from
edward blake ClaY.'"
"St. Clair Donnell's is, as usual, short and to the point. St.
Clair never wastes words. I do not think he chose his subject or
added the postscript out of malice aforethought. It is just that
he has not a great deal of tact or imagination.
"`Dear Miss Shirley
You told us to describe something strange we have seen. I will
describe the Avonlea Hall. It has two doors, an inside one and an
outside one. It has six windows and a chimney. It has two ends
and two sides. It is painted blue. That is what makes it strange.
It is built on the lower Carmody road. It is the third most
important building in Avonlea. The others are the church and the
blacksmith shop. They hold debating clubs and lectures in it and
P.S. The hall is a very bright blue.'"
"Annetta Bell's letter was quite long, which surprised me, for
writing essays is not Annetta's forte, and hers are generally as
brief as st. Clair's. Annetta is a quiet little puss and a model
of good behavior, but there isn't a shadow of orginality in her.
Here is her letter. --
I think I will write you a letter to tell you how much I love you.
I love you with my whole heart and soul and mind. . .with all
there is of me to love. . .and I want to serve you for ever.
It would be my highest privilege. That is why I try so hard to be
good in school and learn my lessuns.
"`You are so beautiful, my teacher. Your voice is like music and
your eyes are like pansies when the dew is on them. You are like a
tall stately queen. Your hair is like rippling gold. Anthony Pye
says it is red, but you needn't pay any attention to Anthony.
"`I have only known you for a few months but I cannot realize that
there was ever a time when I did not know you. . .when you had not
come into my life to bless and hallow it. I will always look back
to this year as the most wonderful in my life because it brought
you to me. Besides, it's the year we moved to Avonlea from
Newbridge. My love for you has made my life very rich and it has
kept me from much of harm and evil. I owe this all to you, my
"`I shall never forget how sweet you looked the last time I saw
you in that black dress with flowers in your hair. I shall see you
like that for ever, even when we are both old and gray. You will
always be young and fair to me, dearest teacher. I am thinking of
you all the time. . .in the morning and at the noontide and at the
twilight. I love you when you laugh and when you sigh. . .even
when you look disdainful. I never saw you look cross though
Anthony Pye says you always look so but I don't wonder you look
cross at him for he deserves it. I love you in every dress. . .you
seem more adorable in each new dress than the last.
"`Dearest teacher, good night. The sun has set and the stars are
shining. . .stars that are as bright and beautiful as your eyes.
I kiss your hands and face, my sweet. May God watch over you and
protect you from all harm.
Your afecksionate pupil
"This extraordinary letter puzzled me not a little. I knew Annetta
couldn't have composed it any more than she could fly. When I went
to school the next day I took her for a walk down to the brook at
recess and asked her to tell me the truth about the letter.
Annetta cried and 'fessed up freely. She said she had never
written a letter and she didn't know how to, or what to say, but
there was bundle of love letters in her mother's top bureau drawer
which had been written to her by an old `beau.'
"`It wasn't father,' sobbed Annetta, `it was someone who was
studying for a minister, and so he could write lovely letters, but
ma didn't marry him after all. She said she couldn't make out what
he was driving at half the time. But I thought the letters were
sweet and that I'd just copy things out of them here and there to
write you. I put "teacher" where he put "lady" and I put in
something of my own when I could think of it and I changed some words.
I put "dress" in place of "mood." I didn't know just what a "mood"
was but I s'posed it was something to wear. I didn't s'pose you'd
know the difference. I don't see how you found out it wasn't
all mine. You must be awful clever, teacher.'
"I told Annetta it was very wrong to copy another person's letter
and pass it off as her own. But I'm afraid that all Annetta
repented of was being found out.
"`And I do love you, teacher,' she sobbed. `It was all true, even
if the minister wrote it first. I do love you with all my heart.'
"It's very difficult to scold anybody properly under such circumstances.
"Here is Barbara Shaw's letter. I can't reproduce the blots of the original.
You said we might write about a visit. I never visited but once.
It was at my Aunt Mary's last winter. My Aunt Mary is a very particular
woman and a great housekeeper. The first night I was there we were at tea.
I knocked over a jug and broke it. Aunt Mary said she had had that jug
ever since she was married and nobody had ever broken it before.
When we got up I stepped on her dress and all the gathers tore out
of the skirt. The next morning when I got up I hit the pitcher against
the basin and cracked them both and I upset a cup of tea on the tablecloth
at breakfast. When I was helping Aunt Mary with the dinner dishes I
dropped a china plate and it smashed. That evening I fell downstairs
and sprained my ankle and had to stay in bed for a week. I heard Aunt Mary
tell Uncle Joseph it was a mercy or I'd have broken everything in the house.
When I got better it was time to go home. I don't like visiting very much.
I like going to school better, especially since I came to Avonlea.
"Willie White's began,
I want to tell you about my Very Brave Aunt. She lives in Ontario
and one day she went out to the barn and saw a dog in the yard.
The dog had no business there so she got a stick and whacked
him hard and drove him into the barn and shut him up. Pretty soon
a man came looking for an inaginary lion' (Query; -- Did Willie
mean a menagerie lion?) `that had run away from a circus. And it
turned out that the dog was a lion and my Very Brave Aunt had druv
him into the barn with a stick. It was a wonder she was not et up
but she was very brave. Emerson Gillis says if she thought it was
a dog she wasn't any braver than if it really was a dog. But
Emerson is jealous because he hasn't got a Brave Aunt himself,
nothing but uncles.'"
"I have kept the best for the last. You laugh at me because I
think Paul is a genius but I am sure his letter will convince you
that he is a very uncommon child. Paul lives away down near the
shore with his grandmother and he has no playmates. . .no real
playmates. You remember our School Management professor told us
that we must not have `favorites' among our pupils, but I can't
help loving Paul Irving the best of all mine. I don't think it
does any harm, though, for everybody loves Paul, even Mrs. Lynde,
who says she could never have believed she'd get so fond of a Yankee.
The other boys in school like him too. There is nothing weak or
girlish about him in spite of his dreams and fancies. He is very
manly and can hold his own in all games. He fought St. Clair
Donnell recently because St. Clair said the Union Jack was away
ahead of the Stars and Stripes as a flag. The result was a drawn
battle and a mutual agreement to respect each other's patriotism
henceforth. St. Clair says he can hit the HARDEST but Paul can
hit the OFTENEST.
My dear teacher,
You told us we might write you about some interesting people we knew.
I think the most interesting people I know are my rock people and I
mean to tell you about them. I have never told anybody about them
except grandma and father but I would like to have you know about
them because you understand things. There are a great many people
who do not understand things so there is no use in telling them.
My rock people live at the shore. I used to visit them almost
every evening before the winter came. Now I can't go till spring,
but they will be there, for people like that never change. . .that
is the splendid thing about them. Nora was the first one of them I
got acquainted with and so I think I love her the best. She lives
in Andrews' Cove and she has black hair and black eyes, and she
knows all about the mermaids and the water kelpies. You ought to
hear the stories she can tell. Then there are the Twin Sailors.
They don't live anywhere, they sail all the time, but they often
come ashore to talk to me. They are a pair of jolly tars and they
have seen everything in the world. . .and more than what is in the
world. Do you know what happened to the youngest Twin Sailor
once? He was sailing and he sailed right into a moonglade. A
moonglade is the track the full moon makes on the water when it is
rising from the sea, you know, teacher. Well, the youngest Twin
Sailor sailed along the moonglade till he came right up to the
moon, and there was a little golden door in the moon and he opened
it and sailed right through. He had some wonderful adventures in
the moon but it would make this letter too long to tell them.
Then there is the Golden Lady of the cave. One day I found a big
cave down on the shore and I went away in and after a while I found
the Golden Lady. She has golden hair right down to her feet and
her dress is all glittering and glistening like gold that is alive.
And she has a golden harp and plays on it all day long. . .you can
hear the music any time along shore if you listen carefully but
most people would think it was only the wind among the rocks.
I've never told Nora about the Golden Lady. I was afraid it
might hurt her feelings. It even hurt her feelings if I talked
too long with the Twin Sailors.
I always met the Twin Sailors at the Striped Rocks. The youngest
Twin Sailor is very good-tempered but the oldest Twin Sailor can
look dreadfully fierce at times. I have my suspicions about that
oldest Twin. I believe he'd be a pirate if he dared. There's really
something very mysterious about him. He swore once and I told him
if he ever did it again he needn't come ashore to talk to me because
I'd promised grandmother I'd never associate with anybody that swore.
He was pretty well scared, I can tell you, and he said if I would
forgive him he would take me to the sunset. So the next evening
when I was sitting on the Striped Rocks the oldest Twin came
sailing over the sea in an enchanted boat and I got in her. The
boat was all pearly and rainbowy, like the inside of the mussel
shells, and her sail was like moonshine. Well, we sailed right
across to the sunset. Think of that, teacher, I've been in the
sunset. And what do you suppose it is? The sunset is a land
all flowers. We sailed into a great garden, and the clouds are beds
of flowers. We sailed into a great harbor, all the color of gold,
and I stepped right out of the boat on a big meadow all covered with
buttercups as big as roses. I stayed there for ever so long. It
seemed nearly a year but the Oldest Twin says it was only a few
minutes. You see, in the sunset land the time is ever so much
longer than it is here.
Your loving pupil
P. S. of course, this letter isn't really true, teacher.
A Jonah Day
It really began the night before with a restless, wakeful vigil of
grumbling toothache. When Anne arose in the dull, bitter winter
morning she felt that life was flat, stale, and unprofitable.
She went to school in no angelic mood. Her cheek was swollen and
her face ached. The schoolroom was cold and smoky, for the fire
refused to burn and the children were huddled about it in shivering
groups. Anne sent them to their seats with a sharper tone than she
had ever used before. Anthony Pye strutted to his with his usual
impertinent swagger and she saw him whisper something to his
seat-mate and then glance at her with a grin.
Never, so it seemed to Anne, had there been so many squeaky pencils
as there were that morning; and when Barbara Shaw came up to the
desk with a sum she tripped over the coal scuttle with disastrous
results. The coal rolled to every part of the room, her slate was
broken into fragments, and when she picked herself up, her face,
stained with coal dust, sent the boys into roars of laughter.
Anne turned from the second reader class which she was hearing.
"Really, Barbara," she said icily, "if you cannot move without
falling over something you'd better remain in your seat. It is
positively disgraceful for a girl of your age to be so awkward."
Poor Barbara stumbled back to her desk, her tears combining with
the coal dust to produce an effect truly grotesque. Never before
had her beloved, sympathetic teacher spoken to her in such a tone
or fashion, and Barbara was heartbroken. Anne herself felt a prick
of conscience but it only served to increase her mental irritation,
and the second reader class remember that lesson yet, as well as
the unmerciful infliction of arithmetic that followed. Just as Anne
was snapping the sums out St. Clair Donnell arrived breathlessly.
"You are half an hour late, St. Clair," Anne reminded him frigidly.
"Why is this?"
"Please, miss, I had to help ma make a pudding for dinner
'cause we're expecting company and Clarice Almira's sick,"
was St. Clair's answer, given in a perfectly respectful voice
but nevertheless provocative of great mirth among his mates.
"Take your seat and work out the six problems on page eighty-four
of your arithmetic for punishment," said Anne. St. Clair looked
rather amazed at her tone but he went meekly to his desk and took
out his slate. Then he stealthily passed a small parcel to Joe
Sloane across the aisle. Anne caught him in the act and jumped to
a fatal conclusion about that parcel.
Old Mrs. Hiram Sloane had lately taken to making and selling
"nut cakes" by way of adding to her scanty income. The cakes were
specially tempting to small boys and for several weeks Anne had had
not a little trouble in regard to them. On their way to school the
boys would invest their spare cash at Mrs. Hiram's, bring the cakes
along with them to school, and, if possible, eat them and treat
their mates during school hours. Anne had warned them that if
they brought any more cakes to school they would be confiscated;
and yet here was St. Clair Donnell coolly passing a parcel of them,
wrapped up in the blue and white striped paper Mrs. Hiram used,
under her very eyes.
"Joseph," said Anne quietly, "bring that parcel here."
Joe, startled and abashed, obeyed. He was a fat urchin who always
blushed and stuttered when he was frightened. Never did anybody
look more guilty than poor Joe at that moment.
"Throw it into the fire," said Anne.
Joe looked very blank.
"P. . .p. . .p. . .lease, m. . .m. . .miss," he began.
"Do as I tell you, Joseph, without any words about it."
"B. . .b. . .but m. . .m. . .miss. . .th. . .th. . .they're. . ."
gasped Joe in desperation.
"Joseph, are you going to obey me or are you NOT?" said Anne.
A bolder and more self-possessed lad than Joe Sloane would have
been overawed by her tone and the dangerous flash of her eyes.
This was a new Anne whom none of her pupils had ever seen before.
Joe, with an agonized glance at St. Clair, went to the stove,
opened the big, square front door, and threw the blue and white
parcel in, before St. Clair, who had sprung to his feet, could
utter a word. Then he dodged back just in time.
For a few moments the terrified occupants of Avonlea school did not
know whether it was an earthquake or a volcanic explosion that had
occurred. The innocent looking parcel which Anne had rashly
supposed to contain Mrs. Hiram's nut cakes really held an
assortment of firecrackers and pinwheels for which Warren Sloane
had sent to town by St. Clair Donnell's father the day before,
intending to have a birthday celebration that evening. The
crackers went off in a thunderclap of noise and the pinwheels
bursting out of the door spun madly around the room, hissing and
spluttering. Anne dropped into her chair white with dismay and all
the girls climbed shrieking upon their desks. Joe Sloane stood as
one transfixed in the midst of the commotion and St. Clair,
helpless with laughter, rocked to and fro in the aisle. Prillie
Rogerson fainted and Annetta Bell went into hysterics.
It seemed a long time, although it was really only a few minutes,
before the last pinwheel subsided. Anne, recovering herself,
sprang to open doors and windows and let out the gas and smoke
which filled the room. Then she helped the girls carry the
unconscious Prillie into the porch, where Barbara Shaw, in an agony
of desire to be useful, poured a pailful of half frozen water over
Prillie's face and shoulders before anyone could stop her.
It was a full hour before quiet was restored . . .but it was a
quiet that might be felt. Everybody realized that even the
explosion had not cleared the teacher's mental atmosphere.
Nobody, except Anthony Pye, dared whisper a word. Ned Clay
accidentally squeaked his pencil while working a sum, caught
Anne's eye and wished the floor would open and swallow him up.
The geography class were whisked through a continent with a speed
that made them dizzy. The grammar class were parsed and analyzed
within an inch of their lives. Chester Sloane, spelling "odoriferous"
with two f's, was made to feel that he could never live down the
disgrace of it, either in this world or that which is to come.
Anne knew that she had made herself ridiculous and that the
incident would be laughed over that night at a score of tea-tables,
but the knowledge only angered her further. In a calmer mood she
could have carried off the situation with a laugh but now that was
impossible; so she ignored it in icy disdain.
When Anne returned to the school after dinner all the children were
as usual in their seats and every face was bent studiously over a
desk except Anthony Pye's. He peered across his book at Anne, his
black eyes sparkling with curiosity and mockery. Anne twitched
open the drawer of her desk in search of chalk and under her very
hand a lively mouse sprang out of the drawer, scampered over the
desk, and leaped to the floor.
Anne screamed and sprang back, as if it had been a snake, and
Anthony Pye laughed aloud.
Then a silence fell. . .a very creepy, uncomfortable silence.
Annetta Bell was of two minds whether to go into hysterics again
or not, especially as she didn't know just where the mouse had gone.
But she decided not to. Who could take any comfort out of
hysterics with a teacher so white-faced and so blazing-eyed
standing before one?
"Who put that mouse in my desk?" said Anne. Her voice was quite
low but it made a shiver go up and down Paul Irving's spine. Joe
Sloane caught her eye, felt responsible from the crown of his head
to the sole of his feet, but stuttered out wildly,
"N. . .n. . .not m. . .m. . .me t. . .t. . .teacher, n. . .n. .
.not m. . .m. . .me."
Anne paid no attention to the wretched Joseph. She looked at
Anthony Pye, and Anthony Pye looked back unabashed and unashamed.
"Anthony, was it you?"
"Yes, it was," said Anthony insolently.
Anne took her pointer from her desk. It was a long, heavy hardwood pointer.
"Come here, Anthony."
It was far from being the most severe punishment Anthony Pye had
ever undergone. Anne, even the stormy-souled Anne she was at that
moment, could not have punished any child cruelly. But the pointer
nipped keenly and finally Anthony's bravado failed him; he winced
and the tears came to his eyes.
Anne, conscience-stricken, dropped the pointer and told Anthony to
go to his seat. She sat down at her desk feeling ashamed,
repentant, and bitterly mortified. Her quick anger was gone and
she would have given much to have been able to seek relief in
tears. So all her boasts had come to this. . .she had actually
whipped one of her pupils. How Jane would triumph! And how
Mr. Harrison would chuckle! But worse than this, bitterest
thought of all, she had lost her last chance of winning Anthony Pye.
Never would he like her now.
Anne, by what somebody has called "a Herculaneum effort," kept back
her tears until she got home that night. Then she shut herself in
the east gable room and wept all her shame and remorse and
disappointment into her pillows. . .wept so long that Marilla grew
alarmed, invaded the room, and insisted on knowing what the trouble was.
"The trouble is, I've got things the matter with my conscience,"
sobbed Anne. "Oh, this has been such a Jonah day, Marilla. I'm so
ashamed of myself. I lost my temper and whipped Anthony Pye."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Marilla with decision. "It's what you
should have done long ago."
"Oh, no, no, Marilla. And I don't see how I can ever look those
children in the face again. I feel that I have humiliated myself
to the very dust. You don't know how cross and hateful and horrid
I was. I can't forget the expression in Paul Irving's eyes. . .he
looked so surprised and disappointed. Oh, Marilla, I HAVE tried so
hard to be patient and to win Anthony's liking. . .and now it has
all gone for nothing."
Marilla passed her hard work-worn hand over the girl's glossy,
tumbled hair with a wonderful tenderness. When Anne's sobs grew
quieter she said, very gently for her,
"You take things too much to heart, Anne. We all make mistakes. . .but
people forget them. And Jonah days come to everybody. As for Anthony Pye,
why need you care if he does dislike you? He is the only one."
"I can't help it. I want everybody to love me and it hurts me so
when anybody doesn't. And Anthony never will now. Oh, I just made
an idiot of myself today, Marilla. I'll tell you the whole story."
Marilla listened to the whole story, and if she smiled at certain
parts of it Anne never knew. When the tale was ended she said briskly,
"Well, never mind. This day's done and there's a new one coming
tomorrow, with no mistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself.
Just come downstairs and have your supper. You'll see if a good
cup of tea and those plum puffs I made today won't hearten you up."
"Plum puffs won't minister to a mind diseased," said Anne disconsolately;
but Marilla thought it a good sign that she had recovered sufficiently
to adapt a quotation.
The cheerful supper table, with the twins' bright faces, and
Marilla's matchless plum puffs. . .of which Davy ate four. . .
did "hearten her up" considerably after all. She had a good sleep
that night and and awakened in the morning to find herself and the
world transformed. It had snowed softly and thickly all through
the hours of darkness and the beautiful whiteness, glittering in
the frosty sunshine, looked like a mantle of charity cast over all
the mistakes and humiliations of the past.
"Every morn is a fresh beginning,
Every morn is the world made new,"
sang Anne, as she dressed.
Owing to the snow she had to go around by the road to school and
she thought it was certainly an impish coincidence that Anthony Pye
should come ploughing along just as she left the Green Gables lane.
She felt as guilty as if their positions were reversed; but to her
unspeakable astonishment Anthony not only lifted his cap. . .which
he had never done before. . .but said easily,
"Kind of bad walking, ain't it? Can I take those books for you,
Anne surrendered her books and wondered if she could possibly be awake.
Anthony walked on in silence to the school, but when Anne took her books
she smiled down at him. . .not the stereotyped "kind" smile she had so
persistently assumed for his benefit but a sudden outflashing of good
comradeship. Anthony smiled. . .no, if the truth must be told,
Anthony GRINNED back. A grin is not generally supposed to be a
respectful thing; yet Anne suddenly felt that if she had not yet
won Anthony's liking she had, somehow or other, won his respect.
Mrs. Rachel Lynde came up the next Saturday and confirmed this.
"Well, Anne, I guess you've won over Anthony Pye, that's what.
He says he believes you are some good after all, even if you are
a girl. Says that whipping you gave him was `just as good as a man's.'"
"I never expected to win him by whipping him, though," said Anne, a
little mournfully, feeling that her ideals had played her false somewhere.
"It doesn't seem right. I'm sure my theory of kindness can't be wrong."
"No, but the Pyes are an exception to every known rule, that's what,"
declared Mrs. Rachel with conviction.
Mr. Harrison said, "Thought you'd come to it," when he heard it,
and Jane rubbed it in rather unmercifully.
A Golden Picnic
Anne, on her way to Orchard Slope, met Diana, bound for Green Gables,
just where the mossy old log bridge spanned the brook below the
Haunted Wood, and they sat down by the margin of the Dryad's Bubble,
where tiny ferns were unrolling like curly-headed green pixy folk
wakening up from a nap.
"I was just on my way over to invite you to help me celebrate my
birthday on Saturday," said Anne.
"Your birthday? But your birthday was in March!"
"That wasn't my fault," laughed Anne. "If my parents had consulted
me it would never have happened then. I should have chosen to be
born in spring, of course. It must be delightful to come into the
world with the mayflowers and violets. You would always feel that
you were their foster sister. But since I didn't, the next best
thing is to celebrate my birthday in the spring. Priscilla is
coming over Saturday and Jane will be home. We'll all four start
off to the woods and spend a golden day making the acquaintance of
the spring. We none of us really know her yet, but we'll meet her
back there as we never can anywhere else. I want to explore all
those fields and lonely places anyhow. I have a conviction that
there are scores of beautiful nooks there that have never really
been SEEN although they may have been LOOKED at. We'll make friends
with wind and sky and sun, and bring home the spring in our hearts."
"It SOUNDS awfully nice," said Diana, with some inward distrust of
Anne's magic of words. "But won't it be very damp in some places yet?"
"Oh, we'll wear rubbers," was Anne's concession to practicalities.
"And I want you to come over early Saturday morning and help me
prepare lunch. I'm going to have the daintiest things possible. . .
things that will match the spring, you understand. . .little jelly
tarts and lady fingers, and drop cookies frosted with pink and
yellow icing, and buttercup cake. And we must have sandwiches
too, though they're NOT very poetical."
Saturday proved an ideal day for a picnic. . .a day of breeze and
blue, warm, sunny, with a little rollicking wind blowing across
meadow and orchard. Over every sunlit upland and field was a
delicate, flower-starred green.
Mr. Harrison, harrowing at the back of his farm and feeling some
of the spring witch-work even in his sober, middle-aged blood,
saw four girls, basket laden, tripping across the end of his field
where it joined a fringing woodland of birch and fir. Their blithe
voices and laughter echoed down to him.
"It's so easy to be happy on a day like this, isn't it?" Anne
was saying, with true Anneish philosophy. "Let's try to make this
a really golden day, girls, a day to which we can always look back
with delight. We're to seek for beauty and refuse to see anything else.
`Begone, dull care!' Jane, you are thinking of something that went wrong
in school yesterday."
"How do you know?" gasped Jane, amazed.
"Oh, I know the expression. . .I've felt it often enough on my own
face. But put it out of your mind, there's a dear. It will keep
till Monday. . .or if it doesn't so much the better. Oh, girls,
girls, see that patch of violets! There's something for memory's
picture gallery. When I'm eighty years old. . .if I ever am. . .
I shall shut my eyes and see those violets just as I see them now.
That's the first good gift our day has given us."
"If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet,"
"I'm so glad you SPOKE that thought, Priscilla, instead of just
thinking it and keeping it to yourself. This world would be a much
more interesting place. . .although it IS very interesting anyhow. . .
if people spoke out their real thoughts."
"It would be too hot to hold some folks," quoted Jane sagely.
"I suppose it might be, but that would be their own faults for
thinking nasty things. Anyhow, we can tell all our thoughts today
because we are going to have nothing but beautiful thoughts.
Everybody can say just what comes into her head. THAT is conversation.
Here's a little path I never saw before. Let's explore it."
The path was a winding one, so narrow that the girls walked in
single file and even then the fir boughs brushed their faces.
Under the firs were velvety cushions of moss, and further on, where
the trees were smaller and fewer, the ground was rich in a variety
of green growing things.
"What a lot of elephant's ears," exclaimed Diana. "I'm going to
pick a big bunch, they're so pretty."
"How did such graceful feathery things ever come to have such a
dreadful name?" asked Priscilla.
"Because the person who first named them either had no imagination
at all or else far too much," said Anne, "Oh, girls, look at that!"
"That" was a shallow woodland pool in the center of a little open
glade where the path ended. Later on in the season it would be dried
up and its place filled with a rank growth of ferns; but now it was
a glimmering placid sheet, round as a saucer and clear as crystal.
A ring of slender young birches encircled it and little ferns
fringed its margin.
"HOW sweet!" said Jane.
"Let us dance around it like wood-nymphs," cried Anne, dropping her
basket and extending her hands.
But the dance was not a success for the ground was boggy and Jane's
rubbers came off.
"You can't be a wood-nymph if you have to wear rubbers,"
was her decision.
"Well, we must name this place before we leave it,"
said Anne, yielding to the indisputable logic of facts.
"Everybody suggest a name and we'll draw lots. Diana?"
"Birch Pool," suggested Diana promptly.
"Crystal Lake," said Jane.
Anne, standing behind them, implored Priscilla with her eyes not to
perpetrate another such name and Priscilla rose to the occasion
with "Glimmer-glass." Anne's selection was "The Fairies' Mirror."
The names were written on strips of birch bark with a pencil
Schoolma'am Jane produced from her pocket, and placed in Anne's
hat. Then Priscilla shut her eyes and drew one. "Crystal Lake,"
read Jane triumphantly. Crystal Lake it was, and if Anne thought
that chance had played the pool a shabby trick she did not say so.
Pushing through the undergrowth beyond, the girls came out to the
young green seclusion of Mr. Silas Sloane's back pasture. Across it
they found the entrance to a lane striking up through the woods and
voted to explore it also. It rewarded their quest with a succession
of pretty surprises. First, skirting Mr. Sloane's pasture, came an
archway of wild cherry trees all in bloom. The girls swung their hats
on their arms and wreathed their hair with the creamy, fluffy blossoms.
Then the lane turned at right angles and plunged into a spruce wood
so thick and dark that they walked in a gloom as of twilight, with
not a glimpse of sky or sunlight to be seen.
"This is where the bad wood elves dwell," whispered Anne. "They
are impish and malicious but they can't harm us, because they are
not allowed to do evil in the spring. There was one peeping at us
around that old twisted fir; and didn't you see a group of them on
that big freckly toadstool we just passed? The good fairies always
dwell in the sunshiny places."
"I wish there really were fairies," said Jane. "Wouldn't it
be nice to have three wishes granted you. . .or even only one?
What would you wish for, girls, if you could have a wish granted?
I'd wish to be rich and beautiful and clever."
"I'd wish to be tall and slender," said Diana.
"I would wish to be famous," said Priscilla. Anne thought of her
hair and then dismissed the thought as unworthy.
"I'd wish it might be spring all the time and in everybody's heart
and all our lives," she said.
"But that," said Priscilla, "would be just wishing this world
were like heaven."
"Only like a part of heaven. In the other parts there would be
summer and autumn. . .yes, and a bit of winter, too. I think I
want glittering snowy fields and white frosts in heaven sometimes.
Don't you, Jane?"
"I. . .I don't know," said Jane uncomfortably. Jane was a good girl,
a member of the church, who tried conscientiously to live up to her
profession and believed everything she had been taught. But she
never thought about heaven any more than she could help, for all that.
"Minnie May asked me the other day if we would wear our best
dresses every day in heaven," laughed Diana.
"And didn't you tell her we would?" asked Anne.
"Mercy, no! I told her we wouldn't be thinking of dresses at all there."
"Oh, I think we will. . .a LITTLE," said Anne earnestly.
"There'll be plenty of time in all eternity for it without
neglecting more important things. I believe we'll all wear
beautiful dresses. . .or I suppose RAIMENT would be a more
suitable way of speaking. I shall want to wear pink for a few
centuries at firSt. . .it would take me that long to get tired of it,
I feel sure. I do love pink so and I can never wear it in THIS world."
Past the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny little open
where a log bridge spanned a brook; and then came the glory of a
sunlit beechwood where the air was like transparent golden wine,
and the leaves fresh and green, and the wood floor a mosaic of
tremulous sunshine. Then more wild cherries, and a little valley
of lissome firs, and then a hill so steep that the girls lost their
breath climbing it; but when they reached the top and came out into
the open the prettiest surprise of all awaited them.
Beyond were the "back fields" of the farms that ran out to the
upper Carmody road. Just before them, hemmed in by beeches and
firs but open to the south, was a little corner and in it a garden
. . .or what had once been a garden. A tumbledown stone dyke,
overgrown with mosses and grass, surrounded it. Along the eastern
side ran a row of garden cherry trees, white as a snowdrift.
There were traces of old paths still and a double line of rosebushes
through the middle; but all the rest of the space was a sheet of
yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most lavish, wind-swayed
bloom above the lush green grasses.
"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" three of the girls cried. Anne only
gazed in eloquent silence.
"How in the world does it happen that there ever was a garden back here?"
said Priscilla in amazement.
"It must be Hester Gray's garden," said Diana. "I've heard mother
speak of it but I never saw it before, and I wouldn't have supposed
that it could be in existence still. You've heard the story, Anne?"
"No, but the name seems familiar to me."
"Oh, you've seen it in the graveyard. She is buried down there in
the poplar corner. You know the little brown stone with the
opening gates carved on it and `Sacred to the memory of Hester
Gray, aged twenty-two.' Jordan Gray is buried right beside her
but there's no stone to him. It's a wonder Marilla never told
you about it, Anne. To be sure, it happened thirty years ago
and everybody has forgotten."
"Well, if there's a story we must have it," said Anne. "Let's sit
right down here among the narcissi and Diana will tell it. Why, girls,
there are hundreds of them. . .they've spread over everything.
It looks as if the garden were carpeted with moonshine and
sunshine combined. This is a discovery worth making.
To think that I've lived within a mile of this place for
six years and have never seen it before! Now, Diana."
"Long ago," began Diana, "this farm belonged to old Mr. David Gray.
He didn't live on it. . .he lived where Silas Sloane lives now.
He had one son, Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work
and while he was there he fell in love with a girl named Hester Murray.
She was working in a store and she hated it. She'd been brought up
in the country and she always wanted to get back. When Jordan asked
her to marry him she said she would if he'd take her away to some
quiet spot where she'd see nothing but fields and trees. So he
brought her to Avonlea. Mrs. Lynde said he was taking a fearful
risk in marrying a Yankee, and it's certain that Hester was very
delicate and a very poor housekeeper; but mother says she was
very pretty and sweet and Jordan just worshipped the ground
she walked on. Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordan this farm and he built
a little house back here and Jordan and Hester lived in it for
four years. She never went out much and hardly anybody went
to see her except mother and Mrs. Lynde. Jordan made her this
garden and she was crazy about it and spent most of her time in it.
She wasn't much of a housekeeper but she had a knack with flowers.
And then she got sick. Mother says she thinks she was in consumption
before she ever came here. She never really laid up but just grew
weaker and weaker all the time. Jordan wouldn't have anybody to
wait on her. He did it all himself and mother says he was as
tender and gentle as a woman. Every day he'd wrap her in a shawl
and carry her out to the garden and she'd lie there on a bench
quite happy. They say she used to make Jordan kneel down by her
every night and morning and pray with her that she might die out in
the garden when the time came. And her prayer was answered. One
day Jordan carried her out to the bench and then he picked all the
roses that were out and heaped them over her; and she just smiled
up at him. . .and closed her eyes. . .and that," concluded Diana softly,
"was the end."
"Oh, what a dear story," sighed Anne, wiping away her tears.
"What became of Jordan?" asked Priscilla.
"He sold the farm after Hester died and went back to Boston.
Mr. Jabez Sloane bought the farm and hauled the little house
out to the road. Jordan died about ten years after and he was
brought home and buried beside Hester."
"I can't understand how she could have wanted to live back here,
away from everything," said Jane.
"Oh, I can easily understand THAT," said Anne thoughtfully. "I
wouldn't want it myself for a steady thing, because, although I
love the fields and woods, I love people too. But I can understand
it in Hester. She was tired to death of the noise of the big city
and the crowds of people always coming and going and caring nothing
for her. She just wanted to escape from it all to some still, green,
friendly place where she could reSt. And she got just what she wanted,
which is something very few people do, I believe. She had four
beautiful years before she died. . .four years of perfect happiness,
so I think she was to be envied more than pitied. And then to shut
your eyes and fall asleep among roses, with the one you loved best
on earth smiling down at you. . .oh, I think it was beautiful!"
"She set out those cherry trees over there," said Diana. "She told
mother she'd never live to eat their fruit, but she wanted to think
that something she had planted would go on living and helping to
make the world beautiful after she was dead."
"I'm so glad we came this way," said Anne, the shining-eyed.
"This is my adopted birthday, you know, and this garden and
its story is the birthday gift it has given me. Did your mother
ever tell you what Hester Gray looked like, Diana?"
"No. . .only just that she was pretty."
"I'm rather glad of that, because I can imagine what she looked like,
without being hampered by facts. I think she was very slight and small,
with softly curling dark hair and big, sweet, timid brown eyes, and a
little wistful, pale face."
The girls left their baskets in Hester's garden and spent the rest
of the afternoon rambling in the woods and fields surrounding it,
discovering many pretty nooks and lanes. When they got hungry they
had lunch in the prettiest spot of all. . .on the steep bank of a
gurgling brook where white birches shot up out of long feathery
grasses. The girls sat down by the roots and did full justice to
Anne's dainties, even the unpoetical sandwiches being greatly
appreciated by hearty, unspoiled appetites sharpened by all the
fresh air and exercise they had enjoyed. Anne had brought glasses
and lemonade for her guests, but for her own part drank cold brook
water from a cup fashioned out of birch bark. The cup leaked,
and the water tasted of earth, as brook water is apt to do in spring;
but Anne thought it more appropriate to the occasion than lemonade.
"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.
"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes
on the birch trees.
"There. . .down in the brook. . .that old green, mossy log with
the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if
they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right
athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful
poem I ever saw."
"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines
"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry
coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward
garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles
and flounces are YOU, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them
. . .and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem.
It is not every day one sees a soul. . .even of a poem."
"I wonder what a soul. . .a person's soul. . .would look like,"
said Priscilla dreamily.
"Like that, I should think," answered Anne, pointing to a radiance
of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. "Only with shape
and features of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light.
And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers. . .and
some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea. . .and some are
pale and transparent like mist at dawn."
"I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers," said Priscilla.
"Then your soul is a golden narcissus," said Anne, "and Diana's is like
a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet."
"And your own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,"
Jane whispered to Diana that she really could not understand what
they were talking about. Could she?
The girls went home by the light of a calm golden sunset, their
baskets filled with narcissus blossoms from Hester's garden,
some of which Anne carried to the cemetery next day and laid
upon Hester's grave. Minstrel robins were whistling in the firs
and the frogs were singing in the marshes. All the basins among
the hills were brimmed with topaz and emerald light.
"Well, we have had a lovely time after all," said Diana, as if she
had hardly expected to have it when she set out.
"It has been a truly golden day," said Priscilla.
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