Anne Of Avonlea

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Anne Of Avonlea


Anne was charging through the grain like a mad thing. Diana hopped
briskly down, tied the horse securely to a post, turned the skirt of her
pretty gingham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and started
in pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run faster than Anne, who
was hampered by her clinging and drenched skirt, and soon overtook her.
Behind them they left a trail that would break Mr. Harrison's heart when
he should see it.

"Anne, for mercy's sake, stop," panted poor Diana. "I'm right out of
breath and you are wet to the skin."

"I must . . . get . . . that cow . . . out . . . before . . . Mr.
Harrison . . . sees her," gasped Anne. "I don't . . . care . . . if I'm
. . . drowned . . . if we . . . can . . . only . . . do that."

But the Jersey cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled out
of her luscious browsing ground. No sooner had the two breathless girls
got near her than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite corner
of the field.

"Head her off," screamed Anne. "Run, Diana, run."

Diana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked Jersey went around the
field as if she were possessed. Privately, Diana thought she was. It was
fully ten minutes before they headed her off and drove her through the
corner gap into the Cuthbert lane.

There is no denying that Anne was in anything but an angelic temper
at that precise moment. Nor did it soothe her in the least to behold a
buggy halted just outside the lane, wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody
and his son, both of whom wore a broad smile.

"I guess you'd better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy her
last week, Anne," chuckled Mr. Shearer.

"I'll sell her to you now, if you want her," said her flushed and
disheveled owner. "You may have her this very minute."

"Done. I'll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim here
can drive her right over to Carmody. She'll go to town with the rest of
the shipment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey cow."

Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow were marching up the
road, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables lane with
her twenty dollars.

"What will Marilla say?" asked Diana.

"Oh, she won't care. Dolly was my own cow and it isn't likely she'd
bring more than twenty dollars at the auction. But oh dear, if Mr.
Harrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and after
my giving him my word of honor that I'd never let it happen! Well, it
has taught me a lesson not to give my word of honor about cows. A cow
that could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn't be
trusted anywhere."

Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde's, and when she returned knew all
about Dolly's sale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of the
transaction from her window and guessed the rest.

"I suppose it's just as well she's gone, though you DO do things in a
dreadful headlong fashion, Anne. I don't see how she got out of the pen,
though. She must have broken some of the boards off."

"I didn't think of looking," said Anne, "but I'll go and see now. Martin
has never come back yet. Perhaps some more of his aunts have died. I
think it's something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogenarians. The
other evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper and she said to Mr.
Sloane, 'I see here that another octogenarian has just died. What is an
octogenarian, Peter?' And Mr. Sloane said he didn't know, but they must
be very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them but they were
dying. That's the way with Martin's aunts."

"Martin's just like all the rest of those French," said Marilla in
disgust. "You can't depend on them for a day." Marilla was looking over
Anne's Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard.
A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her hands.

"Anne Shirley, what's the matter now?"

"Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is terrible. And it's all my
fault. Oh, will I EVER learn to stop and reflect a little before doing
reckless things? Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something dreadful
some day, and now I've done it!"

"Anne, you are the most exasperating girl! WHAT is it you've done?"

"Sold Mr. Harrison's Jersey cow . . . the one he bought from Mr. Bell
. . . to Mr. Shearer! Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute."

"Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?"

"I only wish I were. There's no dream about it, though it's very like a
nightmare. And Mr. Harrison's cow is in Charlottetown by this time. Oh,
Marilla, I thought I'd finished getting into scrapes, and here I am in
the very worst one I ever was in in my life. What can I do?"

"Do? There's nothing to do, child, except go and see Mr. Harrison about
it. We can offer him our Jersey in exchange if he doesn't want to take
the money. She is just as good as his."

"I'm sure he'll be awfully cross and disagreeable about it, though,"
moaned Anne.

"I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable sort of a man. I'll go
and explain to him if you like."

"No, indeed, I'm not as mean as that," exclaimed Anne. "This is all my
fault and I'm certainly not going to let you take my punishment. I'll go
myself and I'll go at once. The sooner it's over the better, for it will
be terribly humiliating."

Poor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars and was passing out when
she happened to glance through the open pantry door. On the table
reposed a nut cake which she had baked that morning . . . a particularly
toothsome concoction iced with pink icing and adorned with walnuts. Anne
had intended it for Friday evening, when the youth of Avonlea were to
meet at Green Gables to organize the Improvement Society. But what were
they compared to the justly offended Mr. Harrison? Anne thought that
cake ought to soften the heart of any man, especially one who had to do
his own cooking, and she promptly popped it into a box. She would take
it to Mr. Harrison as a peace offering.

"That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything at all," she thought
ruefully, as she climbed the lane fence and started on a short cut
across the fields, golden in the light of the dreamy August evening. "I
know now just how people feel who are being led to execution."




III

Mr. Harrison at Home


Mr. Harrison's house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashed
structure, set against a thick spruce grove.

Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his shirt
sleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. When he realized who was coming up
the path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, and
shut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise,
mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the day
before. But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne's
heart.

"If he's so cross now what will he be when he hears what I've done," she
reflected miserably, as she rapped at the door.

But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enter
in a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had laid
aside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chair
very politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enough
if it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering through
the bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne seated
herself than Ginger exclaimed,

"Bless my soul, what's that redheaded snippet coming here for?"

It would be hard to say whose face was the redder, Mr. Harrison's or
Anne's.

"Don't you mind that parrot," said Mr. Harrison, casting a furious
glance at Ginger. "He's . . . he's always talking nonsense. I got him
from my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the choicest
language, and parrots are very imitative birds."

"So I should think," said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errand
quelling her resentment. She couldn't afford to snub Mr. Harrison under
the circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man's
Jersey cow offhand, without his knowledge or consent you must not
mind if his parrot repeated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the
"redheaded snippet" was not quite so meek as she might otherwise have
been.

"I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison," she said
resolutely. "It's . . . it's about . . . that Jersey cow."

"Bless my soul," exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously, "has she gone and
broken into my oats again? Well, never mind . . . never mind if she has.
It's no difference . . . none at all, I . . . I was too hasty yesterday,
that's a fact. Never mind if she has."

"Oh, if it were only that," sighed Anne. "But it's ten times worse. I
don't . . ."

"Bless my soul, do you mean to say she's got into my wheat?"

"No . . . no . . . not the wheat. But . . ."

"Then it's the cabbages! She's broken into my cabbages that I was
raising for Exhibition, hey?"

"It's NOT the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I'll tell you everything . . .
that is what I came for--but please don't interrupt me. It makes me so
nervous. Just let me tell my story and don't say anything till I get
through--and then no doubt you'll say plenty," Anne concluded, but in
thought only.

"I won't say another word," said Mr. Harrison, and he didn't. But
Ginger was not bound by any contract of silence and kept ejaculating,
"Redheaded snippet" at intervals until Anne felt quite wild.

"I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday. This morning I went to
Carmody and when I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana and
I chased her out and you can't imagine what a hard time we had. I was
so dreadfully wet and tired and vexed--and Mr. Shearer came by that very
minute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot for
twenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consulted
Marilla, of course. But I'm dreadfully given to doing things without
thinking--everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer took
the cow right away to ship her on the afternoon train."

"Redheaded snippet," quoted Ginger in a tone of profound contempt.

At this point Mr. Harrison arose and, with an expression that would have
struck terror into any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger's cage into an
adjoining room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and otherwise
conducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding himself
left alone, relapsed into sulky silence.

"Excuse me and go on," said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. "My
brother the sailor never taught that bird any manners."

"I went home and after tea I went out to the milking pen. Mr.
Harrison," . . . Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her old
childish gesture, while her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr.
Harrison's embarrassed face . . . "I found my cow still shut up in the
pen. It was YOUR cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer."

"Bless my soul," exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank amazement at this
unlooked-for conclusion. "What a VERY extraordinary thing!"

"Oh, it isn't in the least extraordinary that I should be getting myself
and other people into scrapes," said Anne mournfully. "I'm noted for
that. You might suppose I'd have grown out of it by this time . . . I'll
be seventeen next March . . . but it seems that I haven't. Mr. Harrison,
is it too much to hope that you'll forgive me? I'm afraid it's too late
to get your cow back, but here is the money for her . . . or you can have
mine in exchange if you'd rather. She's a very good cow. And I can't
express how sorry I am for it all."

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Harrison briskly, "don't say another word about it,
miss. It's of no consequence . . . no consequence whatever. Accidents will
happen. I'm too hasty myself sometimes, miss . . . far too hasty. But I
can't help speaking out just what I think and folks must take me as they
find me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now . . . but never mind, she
wasn't, so it's all right. I think I'd rather have your cow in exchange,
since you want to be rid of her."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'm so glad you are not vexed. I was
afraid you would be."

"And I suppose you were scared to death to come here and tell me, after
the fuss I made yesterday, hey? But you mustn't mind me, I'm a terrible
outspoken old fellow, that's all . . . awful apt to tell the truth, no
matter if it is a bit plain."

"So is Mrs. Lynde," said Anne, before she could prevent herself.

"Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don't you tell me I'm like that old gossip," said Mr.
Harrison irritably. "I'm not . . . not a bit. What have you got in that
box?"

"A cake," said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. Harrison's unexpected
amiability her spirits soared upward feather-light. "I brought it over
for you . . . I thought perhaps you didn't have cake very often."

"I don't, that's a fact, and I'm mighty fond of it, too. I'm much
obliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it's good all the way
through."

"It is," said Anne, gaily confident. "I have made cakes in my time that
were NOT, as Mrs. Allan could tell you, but this one is all right. I
made it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them."

"Well, I'll tell you what, miss, you must help me eat it. I'll put the
kettle on and we'll have a cup of tea. How will that do?"

"Will you let me make the tea?" said Anne dubiously.

Mr. Harrison chuckled.

"I see you haven't much confidence in my ability to make tea. You're
wrong . . . I can brew up as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But go
ahead yourself. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there's plenty of
clean dishes."

Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot in
several waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the stove
and set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state of
that pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr. Harrison
told her where to find the bread and butter and a can of peaches. Anne
adorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes to
the stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready and Anne found
herself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table, pouring his tea
for him, and chatting freely to him about her school and friends and
plans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses.

Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring that the poor bird would
be lonesome; and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody and
everything, offered him a walnut. But Ginger's feelings had been
grievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He sat
moodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like a
mere ball of green and gold.

"Why do you call him Ginger?" asked Anne, who liked appropriate names
and thought Ginger accorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage.

"My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to his
temper. I think a lot of that bird though . . . you'd be surprised if you
knew how much. He has his faults of course. That bird has cost me a good
deal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing habits but
he can't be broken of them. I've tried . . . other people have tried.
Some folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly, ain't it? I like them
myself. Ginger's a lot of company to me. Nothing would induce me to give
that bird up . . . nothing in the world, miss."

Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if he
suspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give Ginger up.
Anne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety little
man, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends. Mr.
Harrison found out about the Improvement Society and was disposed to
approve of it.

"That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room for improvement in this
settlement . . . and in the people too."

"Oh, I don't know," flashed Anne. To herself, or to her particular
cronies, she might admit that there were some small imperfections,
easily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear a
practical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely different
thing. "I think Avonlea is a lovely place; and the people in it are very
nice, too."

"I guess you've got a spice of temper," commented Mr. Harrison,
surveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. "It goes
with hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or I
wouldn't have located here; but I suppose even you will admit that it
has SOME faults?"

"I like it all the better for them," said loyal Anne. "I don't like
places or people either that haven't any faults. I think a truly perfect
person would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never met
a perfect person, but she's heard enough about one . . . her husband's
first wife. Don't you think it must be very uncomfortable to be married
to a man whose first wife was perfect?"

"It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife,"
declared Mr. Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicable warmth.

When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr.
Harrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for weeks
yet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no broom
was visible and she did not like to ask where it was for fear there
wasn't one at all.

"You might run across and talk to me once in a while," suggested Mr.
Harrison when she was leaving. "'Tisn't far and folks ought to be
neighborly. I'm kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to me
there'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?"

"We are not going to meddle with PEOPLE . . . it is only PLACES we mean to
improve," said Anne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr.
Harrison was making fun of the project.

When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window . . . a lithe,
girlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the sunset
afterglow.

"I'm a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap," he said aloud, "but there's
something about that little girl makes me feel young again . . . and it's
such a pleasant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a while."

"Redheaded snippet," croaked Ginger mockingly.

Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot.

"You ornery bird," he muttered, "I almost wish I'd wrung your neck when
my brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done getting
me into trouble?"

Anne ran home blithely and recounted her adventures to Marilla, who had
been not a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point of
starting out to look for her.

"It's a pretty good world, after all, isn't it, Marilla?" concluded Anne
happily. "Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn't much
of a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything pleasant
you were sure to be more or less disappointed . . . perhaps that is true.
But there is a good side to it too. The bad things don't always come
up to your expectations either . . . they nearly always turn out ever so
much better than you think. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasant
experience when I went over to Mr. Harrison's tonight; and instead he
was quite kind and I had almost a nice time. I think we're going to be
real good friends if we make plenty of allowances for each other, and
everything has turned out for the best. But all the same, Marilla, I
shall certainly never again sell a cow before making sure to whom she
belongs. And I do NOT like parrots!"




IV

Different Opinions


One evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert Blythe, and Anne Shirley
were lingering by a fence in the shadow of gently swaying spruce boughs,
where a wood cut known as the Birch Path joined the main road. Jane had
been up to spend the afternoon with Anne, who walked part of the way
home with her; at the fence they met Gilbert, and all three were now
talking about the fateful morrow; for that morrow was the first of
September and the schools would open. Jane would go to Newbridge and
Gilbert to White Sands.

"You both have the advantage of me," sighed Anne. "You're going to teach
children who don't know you, but I have to teach my own old schoolmates,
and Mrs. Lynde says she's afraid they won't respect me as they would
a stranger unless I'm very cross from the first. But I don't believe a
teacher should be cross. Oh, it seems to me such a responsibility!"

"I guess we'll get on all right," said Jane comfortably. Jane was not
troubled by any aspirations to be an influence for good. She meant to
earn her salary fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on the
School Inspector's roll of honor. Further ambitions Jane had none. "The
main thing will be to keep order and a teacher has to be a little cross
to do that. If my pupils won't do as I tell them I shall punish them."

"How?"

"Give them a good whipping, of course."

"Oh, Jane, you wouldn't," cried Anne, shocked. "Jane, you COULDN'T!"

"Indeed, I could and would, if they deserved it," said Jane decidedly.

"I could NEVER whip a child," said Anne with equal decision. "I don't
believe in it AT ALL. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and she had
perfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no order
at all. No, if I can't get along without whipping I shall not try to
teach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my
pupils' affections and then they will WANT to do what I tell them."

"But suppose they don't?" said practical Jane.

"I wouldn't whip them anyhow. I'm sure it wouldn't do any good. Oh,
don't whip your pupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do."

"What do you think about it, Gilbert?" demanded Jane. "Don't you think
there are some children who really need a whipping now and then?"

"Don't you think it's a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child . . . ANY
child?" exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness.

"Well," said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and his
wish to measure up to Anne's ideal, "there's something to be said on
both sides. I don't believe in whipping children MUCH. I think, as you
say, Anne, that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and that
corporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand,
as Jane says, I believe there is an occasional child who can't be
influenced in any other way and who, in short, needs a whipping and
would be improved by it. Corporal punishment as a last resort is to be
my rule."

Gilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded, as is usual and
eminently right, in pleasing neither. Jane tossed her head.

"I'll whip my pupils when they're naughty. It's the shortest and easiest
way of convincing them."

Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance.

"I shall never whip a child," she repeated firmly. "I feel sure it isn't
either right or necessary."

"Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something?" said
Jane.

"I'd keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him," said
Anne. "There is some good in every person if you can find it. It is
a teacher's duty to find and develop it. That is what our School
Management professor at Queen's told us, you know. Do you suppose you
could find any good in a child by whipping him? It's far more important
to influence the children aright than it is even to teach them the three
R's, Professor Rennie says."

"But the Inspector examines them in the three R's, mind you, and he
won't give you a good report if they don't come up to his standard,"
protested Jane.

"I'd rather have my pupils love me and look back to me in after years as
a real helper than be on the roll of honor," asserted Anne decidedly.

"Wouldn't you punish children at all, when they misbehaved?" asked
Gilbert.

"Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, although I know I'll hate to do it.
But you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or give
them lines to write."

"I suppose you won't punish the girls by making them sit with the boys?"
said Jane slyly.

Gilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled rather foolishly. Once
upon a time, Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert for punishment and
sad and bitter had been the consequences thereof.

"Well, time will tell which is the best way," said Jane philosophically
as they parted.

Anne went back to Green Gables by way of Birch Path, shadowy, rustling,
fern-scented, through Violet Vale and past Willowmere, where dark and
light kissed each other under the firs, and down through Lover's Lane
. . . spots she and Diana had so named long ago. She walked slowly,
enjoying the sweetness of wood and field and the starry summer twilight,
and thinking soberly about the new duties she was to take up on the
morrow. When she reached the yard at Green Gables Mrs. Lynde's loud,
decided tones floated out through the open kitchen window.

"Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me good advice about tomorrow," thought
Anne with a grimace, "but I don't believe I'll go in. Her advice is
much like pepper, I think . . . excellent in small quantities but rather
scorching in her doses. I'll run over and have a chat with Mr. Harrison
instead."