Anne Of Avonlea (Bedtime Story) Part 6

Anne of Avonlea is the second novel in Lucy Maud Montgomery's beloved "Anne of Green Gables" series. Published in 1909, this book follows Anne Shirley, the imaginative, spirited, and red-haired orphan from the first novel, as she transitions from adolescence to young adulthood. The story begins two years after the events of Anne of Green Gables.

Now sixteen, Anne has matured significantly but retains her unique blend of idealism, intelligence, and humor. No longer a schoolgirl, she is now a schoolteacher at the Avonlea school. While she feels a sense of responsibility toward her students, Anne’s characteristic romanticism often influences her teaching methods, which sometimes leads to humorous or unanticipated outcomes. She views her pupils as her charges, with each one having the potential to become a friend or ally in her ever-expanding world of imagination.

Transcript

CHAPTER VI ALL SORTS OF CONDITIONS OF MEN AND WOMEN A September day on Prince Edward Island hills. A crisp wind blowing up over the sand dunes from the sea, A long red road winding through fields and woods, Now looping itself about a corner of thick trusses, Now threading a plantation of young maples with great feathery sheets of ferns beneath them, Now dipping down into a hollow where a brook flashed out of the woods into them again, Now basking in open sunshine between ribbons of goldenrod and smoke-blue asters, Air thrilled with the pipings of myriads of crickets, Those glad little pensioners of the summer hills, A plump brown pony ambling along the road, Two girls behind him full to the lips with the simple priceless joy of youth and life. Oh, This is a day left over from Eden, Isn't it, Diana? And Anne sighed for sheer happiness. The air has magic in it. Look at the purple in the cup of the Harvest Valley, Diana, And oh, Do smell the dying fir. It is coming up from that little sunny hollow where Mr. Eben Wright has been getting fence poles. Bliss is it on such a day to be alive. But the smell dying fir is very heaven. That is two-thirds Wordsworth and one-third Anne Shirley. It doesn't seem possible that there should be dying fir in heaven, Does it? And yet it doesn't seem to me that heaven would be quite perfect if you couldn't get a whiff of dead fir as you went through its woods. Yes, We'll have the odour there, Without the deads, Yes, I think that will be the way. That delicious aroma must be the source of the firs, And of course it will be just souls in heaven. Trees haven't souls, Said practical Diana, But the smell of dead fir is certainly lovely. I am going to make a cushion and fill it fir needles. You should make one too, Anne. I think I shall, And I use it for my naps. I'd be certain to dream I was a triad, Or a wood nymph then. But just this minute I am well content to be Anne Shirley, And one least cool ma'am, Driving over a road like this on such a sweet, Friendly day. It is a lovely day, But we have anything but a lovely task before us, Said Diana. Why on earth did you offer to canvass this road, Anne? Almost all the cranks in Avonlea live along it, And will probably be treated as if we were begging for ourselves. It is the very worst road of all. That is why I chose it. Of course Gilbert and Fred would have taken this road if we asked them, But you see, Diana, I feel myself responsible for the A. V. I. S. , Since I was the first to suggest it, And it seems to me that I ought to do the most disagreeable things. I'm sorry for your account, But you don't need to say a word at the cranky places. I do all the talking. Mrs. Lynde would say I was well able to do. Mrs. Lynde doesn't know whether to approve our enterprise or not. She inclines to, When she remembers that Mr. And Mrs. Allan are in favor of it, But the fact that village improvement societies first originated in the States is a count against it. So she is halting between two opinions, And only success will justify us in Mrs. Lynde's eyes. Priscilla is going to write the paper for our next improvement meeting, And I expect it will be good, For her aunt is such a clever writer, And no doubt it runs in the family. I shall never forget the thrill it gave me when I found out that Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla's aunt. It seemed so wonderful that I was a friend of the girl whose aunt wrote Edgewood Days at the Rosebud Garden. Where does Mrs. Morgan live? In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is coming to the island for a visit next summer, And if it is possible Priscilla is going to arrange to have us meet her. That seems almost too good to be true, But it's something pleasant to imagine after you go to bed. The Avonlea Village Improvement Society was an organized fact. Gilbert Plight was a president, Fred Wright, Vice-president, Anne Shirley, Secretary, And Diana Barry, Treasurer. The improvers, As they were promptly christened, Were to meet once a fortnight at the homes of the members. It was admitted that they could not expect to effect many improvements so late in the season, But they meant to plan the next summer's campaign, Collect and discuss ideas, Write and read papers, And, As Anne said, Educate the public sentiment generally. There was some disapproval, Of course, Which the improvers felt much more keenly, A good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright was reported to have said that a more appropriate name for the organization would be Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloan declared that she had heard. The improvers meant to plough up all the roadsides and set them out with geraniums. Mr. Levi Bolter warned his neighbors that the improvers would insist that everybody pull down his house and rebuild it after plans approved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them word that he wished they would kindly shovel down the church hill. Eben Wright told Anne that he wished the improvers could include old Josiah Sloan to keep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell said he would whitewash his barn if nothing else would please them, But he would not hang lace curtains in the cowstable windows. Mr. Major Spencer asked Clifton Sloan, An improver who drove the milk to the Carmody Cheese Factory, If it was true that everybody would have to have his milk stand hand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered centerpiece on it, In spite of, Or perhaps, Human nature being what it is because of this. The society went gamely to work at the only improvement they could hope to bring out that fall, At the school meeting in the Barry Parlor. Oliver Sloan mooed that they start a subscription to re-shingle and paint the hall. Julia Bell seconded. With an uneasy feeling that she was doing something not exactly ladylike, Gilbert put the motion. It was carried on, And Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes. The next thing was to appoint a committee, And Gertie Pye determined not to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels. Boldly mooed that Miss Jane Andrews be chairman of said committee, This motion being also duly seconded, And carried. Jane returned the compliment by appointing Gertie on the committee, Along with Gilbert, Anne Diana, And Fred Wright. The committee chose their routes in private conclave. Anne and Diana were told off for the new bridge road, Gilbert and Fred for the white sands road, And Jane and Gertie for the comedy road, Because, Explained Gilbert to Anne, As they walked home together through the hunted wood, The Pyes all live along that road, And they won't give a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them. The next Saturday, Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end of the road and canvassed homeward, Calling first on the Andrew girls. If Catherine is alone, We may get something, Said Diana, But if Eliza is, There we won't. Eliza was there, Very much so, And looked even grimmer than usual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the impression that life is indeed a vale of tears, And that a smile, Never to speak of a laugh, Is a waste of nervous energy truly reprehensible. The Andrew girls had been girls for fifty-odd years, And seemed likely to remain girls to the end of their early pilgrimage. Catherine, It was said, Had not entirely given up hope, But Eliza, Who was born a pessimist, Had never had any. They lived in a little brown house, Built in a sunny corner scooped out of Mark Andrew's beech woods. Eliza complained that it was terrible hot in the summer, But Catherine was wont to say it was lovely and warm in winter. Eliza was sewing patchwork, Not because it was needed, But simply as a protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting. Eliza listened with a frown, And Catherine with a smile, As the girls explained their errand. To be sure, Whenever Catherine caught Eliza's eye, She discarded the smile in guilty confusion, But it crept back in the next moment. If I had money to waste, Said Eliza grimly, I would burn it up, And have the fun of seeing a blaze maybe. But I wouldn't give it to that hole. Alice said it is no benefit to settlement, Just a place for young folks to meet and carry on when they'd better be home in their beds. Oh, Eliza, Young folks must have some amusement, Protested Catherine. I don't see the necessity. We didn't get about to halls and places when we were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is getting worse every day. I think it is getting better, Said Catherine firmly. You think? Miss Eliza's voice expressed the utmost uncontempt. It doesn't signify what you think, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts. Well I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza. There isn't any bright side. Oh indeed there is, Cried Anne, Who couldn't endure such heresy in silence. Why there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews? It is really a beautiful world. You won't have such a high opinion of it when you have lived as long as I have, Retorted Miss Eliza sorely. And you won't be so enthusiastic about improving it either. How is your mother, Diana? Dear me, But she has felled of late. She looks terrible, Run down. And how long is it before Marilla expects to be stoned blind, Anne? The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is very careful, Faltered Anne. Eliza shook her head. Doctor always talk like that, Just to keep people cheered up. I wouldn't have much hope if I was her. It is best to be prepared for the worst. But shouldn't we be prepared for the best too, Pleaded Anne. It is just as likely to happen as the worst. Not in my experience. And I'm fifty-seven years, Set against your sixteen, Retorted Eliza. Going are you? Well, I hope this new society of yours will be able to keep Ellen Lee from running any further downhill. But I haven't much hope of it. Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, And drove away as fast as the fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the beech wood, A plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews, Asked her, Waving to them excitedly. It was Catherine Andrews. And she was so out of breath that she could hardly speak. But she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne's hand. That is my contribution to painting the hall, She gasped. I would like to give you a dollar, But I don't dare to take more from my egg money. Eliza would find it out if I did. I am really interested in your society, And I believe you are going to do a lot of good. I am an optimist. I have to be, Living with Eliza. I must hurry back before she misses me. She thinks I am feeding the hens. I hope you will have good luck canvassing, And don't be cast down over what Eliza said. The world is getting better. It certainly is. The next house was Daniel Blair's. Now it all depends on whether his wife is home or not, Said Diana, As they jotted along a deep-rutted lane. If she is, We won't get a cent. Everybody says Dan Blair doesn't dare have his hair cut without asking her permission, And it's certain she is very close, To state it moderately. She says she has to be just before she is generous. But Miss Lynde says she is so much before that generosity never catches up with her at all, And related their experience at the Blair place that evening. We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen door. Nobody came, But the door was open, And we could hear somebody in the pantry, Going on dreadfully. We couldn't make out the words, But Diana says she knows they were swearing by the sound of them. I can't believe that of Mr. Blair, For he is always so quiet and meek, But at least he had great provocation. For Marilla, When that poor man came to the door, Wet as a beet with perspiration streaming down his face, He had on one of his wife's big gingham aprons. I cannot get this darn thing off, He said, For the strings are tied in a hard knot, And I can't bust them out. So you will have to excuse me, Ladies. We begged him not to mention it, And went in and sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too. He twisted the apron around to his back and rolled it up, But he did look so ashamed and worried that I felt sorry for him. And Diana said she feared we had caught at an inconvenient time. Oh, Not at all, Said Mr. Blair, Trying to smile. You know he is always very polite. I am a little busy, Getting ready to bake a cake as it were. My wife got a telegram today that her sister from Montreal is coming tonight. She is gone to the train to meet her, And left orders for me to make a cake for tea. She write out the recipe and told me what to do, But I have clean forgot half the directions already, And it says flavor according to taste. What does that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't happen to be other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for a small layer cake? I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be in his proper sphere at all. I had heard of hen-baked husbands, And now I felt that I saw one. It was on my lips to say, Mr. Blair, If you will give us a subscription for the hall, I will mix up your cake for you. But I suddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargain with a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix the cake for him, Without any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said he'd been used to making his own bread before he was married, But he feared cake was beyond him, And yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me another apron, And Diana beat the eggs, And I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair ran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about his apron, And when he ran it streamed out behind him. And Diana said she thought she would die to see it. He said he could bake the cake all right. He was used to that, And then he asked for our list, And he put down four dollars. So you see, We were rewarded, But even if he hadn't given a cent, I would always feel that we had done a truly Christian act in helping him. Theodore White's was the next stop in place. Neither Anne or Diana had ever been there before, And they had only a very slight acquaintance with Mrs. Theodore, Who was not given to hospitality should they go to the back door or front door While they held a whispered consultation, Mrs. Theodore appeared at the front door with an armful of newspapers. She laid them down one by one on the porch floor, And the porch steps, And then down the bath to the very feet of her mystified collars. Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the grass, And then walk on these papers? She said anxiously. I have just swept the house all over, And I can't have any more dust-trackers in. The bath has been real muddy since the rain yesterday. Don't you dare laugh, Warned Anne in a whisper. And I implore you, Diana, Not to look at me, No matter what she says, Or I shall not be able to keep a sober face. The papers extended across the hall and into a prim, Freckless parlor. Anne and Diana sat down gingerly on the nearest chairs and explained their errand. Miss White heard them politely, Interrupting only twice, Once to chase alternate adventures flying and once to pick up a tiny wisp of grass that had fallen on the carpet from Anne's dress. Anne felt wretchfully guilty, But Miss White subscribed two dollars and paid the money down to prevent us from having to go back for it. Diana said when they got away. Miss White had the newspapers gathered up before they had their host untied, And as they drove out of the yard they saw her busily wielding a broom in the hall. I have always heard that Miss Theodore White was the neatest woman alive, And I believe it after this, Said Diana giving away to her suppressed laughter, As soon as it was safe. I am glad she has no children, Said Anne solemnly. It would be dreadful beyond words for them if she had. At the Spencer's Miss Isabella Spencer made them miserable by saying something ill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Boulder refused to give anything because the hall, When it had been built twenty years before, Hadn't been built on the site he recommended. Miss Esther Bell, Who was the picture of health, Took half an hour to detail all her aches and pains, And sadly put down fifty cents because she wouldn't be there that time next year to do it. No, She would be in her grave. Their worst reception, However, Was at Simon Fletcher's. When they drove into the yard they saw two faces peering at them through the porch window. But although they rapped and waited patiently and persistently, Nobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffled and indignant girls drove away from Simon Fletcher's. Even Anne admitted that she was beginning to feel discouraged. But the tide turned after that. Several Sloan homesteads came next, Where they got liberal subscriptions. And from that to the end they fared well, With only an occasional snap. Their last place of call was at Robert Dixon's by the Bond Bridge. They stayed to tea there, Although they were nearly home, Rather than risk offending Miss Dixon, Who had the reputation of being a very touchy woman. While they were there old Mrs. James White called in. I have just been down to Lorenzo's, She announced. He is the proudest man in our latest minute. What do you think? There is a brand new boy there, And after seven girls. That's quite an event, I can tell you. Anne pricked up her ears, And when they drove away she said, I am going straight to Lorenzo White's. But he lives in the White Sands Road, And it's quite a distant out of our way, Protested Diana. Gilbert and Fred will canvass him. They are not going around till next Saturday, And it will be too late by then, Said Anne firmly. The novelty will be worn off. Mr. White is dreadfully mean, But he will subscribe to anything just now. We mustn't let such a golden opportunity slip, Diana. The result justified Anne's foresight. Mr. White met them in the yard, Beaming like the sun upon an Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he agreed enthusiastically, Certain, Certain, Just put me down for a dollar more than the highest subscription you got. That will be five dollars. Mr. Daniel Blair put down four, Said Anne half afraid. But Lorenzo did not flinch. Five it is, And here's the money on the spot. Now I want you to come into the house. There's something in there worth seeing, Something very few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass your opinion. What will we say if the baby isn't pretty, Whispered Diana in trepidation as they followed the excited Lorenzo into the house. Oh, There will certainly be something else nice to say about it, Said Anne easily. There always is about a baby. The baby was pretty, However, And Mr. White felt that he got his five dollars. Word of the girl's honest delight over the plump little newcomer. But that was the first, Last, And only time that Lorenzo White ever subscribed to anything. Feeling tired as she was, Made one more effort for the public wheel that night, Slipping over the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, Who was usual smogging his pipe on the veranda with Ginger beside him. Strictly speaking, He was on the comedy road, But Jane and Gertie, Who were not acquainted with him, Save by doubtful report, Had nervously begged Anne to canvas him. Mr. Harrison, However, Flatly refused to subscribe a cent, And all Anne's wiles were in vain. But I thought you approved of our society, Mr. Harrison, She mourned. So I do, But my approval doesn't go as deep as my pocket, Anne. A few more experiences such as I have had today would make me as much of a pessimist as Miss Eliza Andrews and thought her reflection in the East Gable mirror at bedtime.