Anne Of Avonlea - Chapter 19

"Anne of Avonlea" was written by L. M. Montgomery and published in 1909, following the enormous success of Anne of Green Gables the prior year.

In this second book, Anne Shirley is sixteen years old and working in Avonlea as the local schoolteacher, determined to be sensible, responsible and worthy of the life she’s been given...

Chapter 19 celebrates one of Anne’s “just happy days.”

A quiet summer afternoon brings small pleasures: time by the water, thoughtful conversation, imaginative companionship and the steady comfort of friendship.

Anne moves easily between the different worlds of children and grown-ups, offering reassurance, understanding and encouragement as necessary...

By evening, the chapter settles into reflection and hope, reminding us that the simplest days and pleasures are often the ones that linger longest in the heart...

Find the full playlist for "Anne of Avonlea" here: https://insig.ht/YbyKlkqHkZb

Transcript

Hello there,

Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Anne of Avonlea,

The charming sequel to Anne of Green Gables from 1909 from Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Perhaps you've already heard the preceding parts of this book.

We've been hearing about the red-headed orphan Anne Shirley as a 16-17 year old working in her little community of Avonlea.

With both the children and various other projects.

If you haven't heard the preceding parts of this book and you'd like to,

You can certainly look for the playlist for Anne of Avonlea and you'll find everything there in order.

It makes it a lot easier to keep track of all the chapters.

But for now,

Let's just take a moment here to have a nice deep exhale.

Letting go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else we have to go,

Nothing else we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the ongoing tale of Anne of Avonlea.

Chapter 19.

Just a happy day.

After all,

Anne had said to Marilla once,

I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens,

But just those that bring simple little pleasures following one another softly like pearls slipping off a string.

Life at Green Gables was full of just such days.

For Anne's adventures and misadventures,

Like those of other people,

Did not all happen at once,

But were sprinkled over the year with long stretches of harmless,

Happy days between.

Filled with work and dreams and laughter and lessons.

Such a day came late in August.

In the forenoon,

Anne and Diana rode the delighted twins down the pond to the sand shore to pick sweet grass and paddle in the surf,

Over which the wind was harping an old lyric learned when the afternoon Anne walked down to the old Irving place to see Paul.

She found him stretched out on the grassy bank beside the thick fir grove that sheltered the house on the north,

Absorbed in a book of fairy tales.

He sprang up radiantly at sight of her.

Oh,

I'm so glad you've come,

Teacher,

He said eagerly,

Because Grandma's away.

You'll stay and have tea with me,

Won't you?

It's so lonesome to have tea all by oneself,

You know,

Teacher.

I've had serious thoughts of asking young Mary Jo to sit down and eat her tea with me,

But I expect Grandma wouldn't approve.

She says the French have to be kept in their place.

And anyhow,

It's difficult to talk with young Mary Jo.

She just laughs and says,

Well,

You's do beat all the kids I ever knowed.

That isn't my idea of conversation.

Of course I'll stay to tea,

Said Anne gaily.

I was dying to be asked.

My mouth has been watering for some more of your grandma's delicious shortbread ever since I had tea here before.

Paul looked very sober.

If it depended on me,

Teacher,

He said,

Standing before Anne with his hands in his pockets and his beautiful little face shadowed with sudden care.

You should have shortbread with a right goodwill.

But it depends on Mary Jo.

I heard Grandma tell her before she left that she wasn't to give me any shortcake because it is too rich for little boys' stomachs.

But maybe Mary Jo will cut some for you,

If I promise I won't eat any.

Let us hope for the best.

Yes,

Let us,

Agreed Anne,

Whom this cheerful philosophy suited exactly.

And if Mary Jo proves hard-hearted and won't give me any shortbread,

It doesn't matter in the least.

So you are not to worry over that.

You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't,

Said Paul,

Anxiously.

Perfectly sure,

Dear heart.

Then I won't worry,

Said Paul,

With a long breath of relief.

Especially as I really think Mary Jo will listen to reason.

She's not a naturally unreasonable person,

But she has learned by experience that it doesn't do to disobey Grandma's orders.

Grandma is an excellent woman,

But people must do as she tells them.

She was very much pleased with me this morning because I managed,

At last,

To eat all my plateful of porridge.

It was a great effort,

But I succeeded.

Grandma says she thinks she'll make a man of me yet.

But,

Teacher,

I wanted to ask you a very important question.

You will answer it truthfully,

Won't you?

I'll try,

Promised Anne.

Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story,

Asked Paul,

As if his very existence depended on her reply.

Goodness,

No,

Paul,

Exclaimed Anne in amazement.

Certainly you're not.

What puts such an idea into your head?

Mary Jo.

But she didn't know I heard her.

Mrs.

Peter Sloan's hired girl,

Veronica,

Came to see Mary Jo last evening,

And I heard them talking in the kitchen as I was going through the That Paul,

He is the queerest little boy.

He talks that queer.

I think there's something wrong in his upper story.

I couldn't sleep last night for ever so long thinking of it,

And wondering if Mary Jo was right.

I couldn't bear to ask Grandma about it somehow.

But I made up my mind I'd ask you.

I'm so glad you think I'm all right in my upper story.

Of course you are.

Mary Jo is a silly,

Ignorant girl,

And you are never to worry about anything she says,

Said Anne indignantly,

Secretly resolving to give Mrs.

Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability of restraining Mary Jo's tongue.

Well,

That's a weight off my mind,

Said Paul.

I'm perfectly happy now,

Teacher,

Thanks to you.

It wouldn't be nice to have something wrong in your upper story,

Would it,

Teacher?

I suppose the reason Mary Jo imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about things sometimes.

It is a rather dangerous practice,

Admitted Anne,

Out of the depths of her own experience.

Well,

By and by,

I'll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Jo,

And you can see for yourself if there's anything queer in them,

Said Paul.

But I'll wait till it begins to get dark.

That is the time I ache to tell people things,

And when nobody else is handy,

I just have to tell Mary Jo.

But after this,

I won't,

If it makes her imagine I'm wrong in my upper story.

I'll just ache and bear it.

And if the ache gets too bad,

You can come up to Green Gables and tell me your thoughts,

Suggested Anne,

With all the gravity that endeared her to children who so dearly love to be taken seriously.

Yes,

I will.

But I hope Davy won't be there when I go,

Because he makes faces at me.

I don't mind very much,

Because he is such a little boy,

And I am quite a big one,

But still,

It is not pleasant to have faces made at you,

And Davy makes such terrible ones.

Sometimes I am frightened he will never get his face straightened out again.

He makes them at me in church,

When I ought to be thinking of sacred things.

Dora likes me though,

And I like her,

But not so well as I did before she told Minnie Mae Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up.

I may marry somebody when I grow up,

But I'm far too young to be thinking of it yet.

Don't you think,

Teacher?

" Rather young,

Agreed teacher.

Speaking of marrying reminds me of another thing that has been troubling me of late,

Continued Paul.

Mrs.

Lynde was down here one day last week,

Having tea with Grandma,

And Grandma made me show her my little mother's picture the one father sent me for my birthday present.

I didn't exactly want to show it to Mrs.

Lynde.

Mrs.

Lynde is a good,

Kind woman,

But she isn't the sort of person you want to show your mother's picture to.

You know,

Teacher.

But of course,

I obeyed Grandma.

Mrs.

Lynde said she was very pretty,

But kind of actressy looking,

And must have been an awful lot younger than father.

Then,

She said,

"'Some of these days,

Your pa will be marrying again,

Likely.

How will you like to have a new ma,

Master Paul?

' Well,

The idea almost took my breath away,

Teacher.

But I wasn't going to let Mrs.

Lynde see that.

I just looked her straight in the face,

Like this,

And I said,

"'Mrs.

Lynde,

Father made a pretty good job of picking out my first mother,

And I could trust him to pick out just as good a one the second time.

' And I can trust him,

Teacher.

But still,

I hope,

If he ever does give me a new mother,

He'll ask my opinion about her before it's too late.

There's Mary Jo coming to call us to tea.

I'll go and consult with her about the shortbread.

" As a result of the consultation,

Mary Jo cut the shortbread,

And added a dish of preserves to the bill of fare.

Anne poured the tea,

And she and Paul had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room,

Whose windows were open to the gulf breezes,

And they talked so much nonsense that Mary Jo was quite scandalised,

And told Veronica the next evening that Disgulmis was as queer as Paul.

After tea,

Paul took Anne up to his room to show her his mother's picture,

Which had been the mysterious birthday present kept by Mrs.

Irving in the bookcase.

Paul's little low-ceilinged room was a soft whirl of ruddy light from the sun that was setting over the sea,

And swinging shadows from the fir trees that grew close to the square deep-set window.

From out this soft glow and glamour shone a sweet,

Girlish face,

With tender mother eyes,

That was hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed.

That's my little mother,

Said Paul with loving pride.

I got grandma to hang it there,

Where I'd see it as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning.

I never mind not having the light when I go to bed now,

Because it just seems as if my little mother was right here with me.

Father knew just what I would like for a birthday present,

Although he never asked me.

Isn't it wonderful how much fathers do know?

Your mother was very lovely,

Paul,

And you look a little like her,

But her eyes and hair are darker than yours.

My eyes are the same colour as father's,

Said Paul,

Flying about the room to heap all available cushions on the window seat,

But father's hair is grey.

He has lots of it,

But it is grey.

You see,

Father is nearly 50.

That's ripe old age,

Isn't it?

But it's only outside he's old,

Inside he's just as young as anybody.

Now,

Teacher,

Please sit here,

And I'll sit at your feet.

May I lay my head against your knee?

That's the way my little mother and I used to sit.

Oh,

This is real splendid,

I think.

Now,

I want to hear those thoughts which Mary Jo pronounces so queer,

Said Anne,

Patting the mop of curls at her side.

Paul never needed any coaxing to tell his thoughts,

At least to congenial souls.

I thought them out in the fir grove one night,

He said dreamily.

Of course,

I didn't believe them,

But I thought them,

You know,

Teacher.

And then I wanted to tell them to somebody,

And there was nobody but Mary Jo.

Mary Jo was in the pantry setting bread,

And I sat down on the bench beside her,

And I said,

Mary Jo,

Do you know what I think?

I think the evening star is a lighthouse on the land where the fairies dwell.

And Mary Jo said,

Well,

Youse are the queer one,

There ain't no such thing as fairies.

I was very much provoked.

Of course,

I knew there are no fairies,

But that needn't prevent my thinking there is,

You know,

Teacher.

But I tried again,

Quite patiently.

I said,

Well then,

Mary Jo,

Do you know what I think?

I think an angel walks over the world after the sun sets,

A great tall white angel with silvery folded wings and sings the flowers and birds to sleep.

Children can hear him if they know how to listen.

Then Mary Jo held up her hands all over flower and said,

Well,

Youse are the queer little boy.

Youse make me feel scare.

And she really did,

Look,

Scared.

I went out then and whispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden.

There was a little birch tree in the garden and it died.

Grandma says the salt spray killed it,

But I think the dryad belonging to it was a foolish dryad who wandered away to see the world and got lost.

And the little tree was so lonely,

It died of a broken heart.

And when the poor foolish little dryad gets tired of the world and comes back to her tree,

Her heart will break,

Said Anne.

Yes,

But if dryads are foolish,

They must take the consequences just as if they were real people,

Said Paul gravely.

Do you know what I think about the new moon,

Teacher?

I think it is a little golden boat full of dreams.

And when it tips on a cloud,

Some of them spill out and fall into your sleep.

Exactly,

Teacher.

Oh,

You do know.

And I think the violets are little snips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for the stars to shine through.

And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine.

And I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven.

Now,

Teacher,

Do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?

No,

Laddie dear,

They are not queer at all.

They are strange and beautiful thoughts for a little boy to think.

And so people who couldn't think anything of the sort themselves,

If they tried for a hundred years,

Think them queer.

But keep on thinking them,

Paul.

Someday you are going to be a poet,

I believe.

When Anne reached home,

She found a very different type of boyhood waiting to be put to bed.

Davy was sulky.

And when Anne had undressed him,

He bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.

Davy,

You have forgotten to say your prayers,

Said Anne rebukingly.

No,

I didn't forget,

Said Davy defiantly.

But I ain't gonna say my prayers anymore.

I'm gonna give up trying to be good,

Because no matter how good I am,

You'd like Paul Irving better.

So I might as well be bad and have the fun of it.

I don't like Paul Irving better,

Said Anne seriously.

I like you just as well,

Only in a different way.

But I want you to like me the same way,

Pouted Davy.

You can't like different people the same way.

You don't like Dora and me the same way,

Do you?

Davy sat up and reflected.

No,

He admitted at last.

I like Dora because she's my sister.

But I like you because you're you.

And I like Paul because he is Paul.

And Davy because he is Davy,

Said Anne gaily.

Well,

I kind of wish I'd said my prayers then,

Said Davy,

Convinced by this logic.

But it's too much bother getting out now to say them.

I'll say them twice over in the morning,

Anne.

Won't that do as well?

No,

Anne was positive it would not do as well.

So Davy scrambled out and knelt down at her knee.

When he had finished his devotions,

He leaned back on his little bare brown heels and looked up at her.

Anne,

I'm gooder than I used to be.

Yes,

Indeed you are,

Davy,

Said Anne,

Who never hesitated to give credit where credit was due.

I know I'm gooder,

Said Davy confidently.

And I'll tell you how I know it.

Today,

Marilla gave me two pieces of bread and jam,

One for me and one for Dora.

One was a good deal bigger than the other.

And Marilla didn't say which was mine.

But I give the biggest piece to Dora.

That was good of me,

Wasn't it?

Very good and very manly,

Davy.

Of course,

Admitted Davy,

Dora wasn't very hungry and she only ate half her slice and then she'd give the rest to me.

But I didn't know she was going to do that when I give it to her.

So I was good.

Anne?

In the twilight,

Anne sauntered down to the Dryads' Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky haunted wood.

She had a sudden realisation that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer.

And how manly he looked.

The tall,

Frank-faced fellow with the clear,

Straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders.

Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsome lad,

Even though he didn't look at all like her ideal man.

She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed exactly similar.

He must be very tall and distinguished looking,

With melancholy,

Inscrutable eyes and a melting,

Sympathetic voice.

There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert's physiognomy.

But of course,

That didn't matter in friendship.

Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the bubble and looked approvingly at Anne.

If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman,

The description would have answered point for point to Anne.

Even to those seven tiny freckles,

Whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul,

Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy.

But a boy has his dreams,

As have others,

And in Gilbert's future,

There was always a girl with big,

Limpid,

Grey eyes and a face as fine and delicate as a flower.

He had made up his mind also that his future must be worthy of its goddess.

Even in quiet Avonlea,

There were temptations to be met and faced.

White Sand's youth were a rather fast set,

And Gilbert was popular wherever he went,

But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne's friendship and perhaps,

Some distant day,

Her love.

And he watched over word and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were to pass in judgment on it.

She held over him the unconscious influence that every girl,

Whose ideals are high and pure,

Wields over her friends,

An influence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those ideals and which she would certainly lose if she were ever forced to them.

In Gilbert's eyes,

Anne's greatest charm was the fact that she never stooped to the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls.

The small jealousies,

The little deceits and rivalries,

The palpable bids for favour.

Anne held herself apart from all this,

Not consciously or of design,

But simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreign to her transparent,

Impulsive nature,

Crystal clear in its motives and aspirations.

But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words,

For he had already too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostily nip all attempts at sentiment in the bud or laugh at him,

Which was ten times worse.

You look like a real dryad under that birch tree,

He said teasingly.

I love birch trees,

Said Anne,

Laying her cheek against the creamy satin of the slim bowl with one of the pretty caressing gestures that came so natural to her.

Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr Major Spencer has decided to set out a row of white birches all along the road front of his farm by way of encouraging the AVIS,

Said Gilbert.

He was talking to me about it today.

Major Spencer is the most progressive and public-spirited man in Avonlea,

And Mr William Bell is going to set out a spruce hedge along his road front and up his lane.

Our society is getting on splendidly,

Anne.

It is past the experimental stage and is an accepted fact.

The older folks are beginning to take an interest in it,

And the White Sands people are talking of starting one too.

Even Alicia Wright has come around since that day the Americans from the hotel had the picnic at the shore.

They praised our roadsides so highly and said they were so much prettier than in any other part of the island.

And when,

In due time,

The other farmers follow Mr Spencer's good example and plant ornamental trees and hedges along their road front,

Avonlea will be the prettiest settlement in the province.

The aides are talking of taking up the graveyard,

Said Anne,

And I hope they will because there will have to be a subscription for that and it would be no use for the society to try it after the Hall affair.

But the aides would never have stirred in the matter if the society hadn't put it into their thoughts unofficially.

Those trees we planted on the church grounds are flourishing,

And the trustees have promised me that they will fence in the school grounds next year if they do.

I'll have an arbor day and every scholar shall plant a tree,

And we'll have a garden in the corner by the road.

We've succeeded in almost all our plans so far,

Except in getting the old bolter house removed,

Said Gilbert,

And I've given that up in despair.

Levi won't have it taken down just to vex us.

There's a contrary streak in all the bolters,

And it's strongly developed in him.

Julia Bell wants to send another committee to him,

But I think the better way will just be to leave him severely alone,

Said Anne sagely.

And trust to providence,

As Mrs Lynn says,

Smiled Gilbert.

Certainly no more committees.

They only aggravate him.

Julia Bell thinks you can do anything if you only have a committee to attempt it.

Next spring,

Anne,

We must start an agitation for nice lawns and grounds.

We'll sow good seed betimes this winter.

I've a treatise here on lawns and lawn making,

And I'm going to prepare a paper on the subject soon.

Well,

I suppose our vacation is almost over.

School opens Monday.

Has Ruby Gillis got the Carmody school?

Yes.

Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own home school,

So the Carmody trustees gave it to Ruby.

I'm sorry Priscilla is not coming back,

But since she can't,

I'm glad Ruby has got the school.

She will be home for Saturdays,

And it will seem like old times to have her and Jane and Diana and myself all together again.

Marilla,

Just home from Mrs Lynn's,

Was sitting on the back porch step when Anne returned to the house.

Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to town tomorrow,

She said.

Mr Lynd is feeling better this week,

And Rachel wants to go before he has another sick spell.

I intend to get up extra early tomorrow morning,

For I've ever so much to do,

Said Anne,

Virtuously.

For one thing,

I'm going to shift the feathers from my old bed tick to the new one.

I ought to have done it long ago,

But I've just kept putting it off.

It's such a detestable task.

It's a very bad habit to put off disagreeable things,

And I never mean to again,

Or else I can't comfortably tell my pupils not to do it.

That would be inconsistent.

Then I want to make a cake for Mr Harrison,

And finish my paper on gardens for the AVIS,

And write Stella,

And wash and starch my muslin dress,

And make Dora's new apron.

You won't get half done,

Said Marilla,

Pessimistically.

I never yet planned to do a lot of things,

But something happened to prevent me.