Avonlea At Night - Mrs. Lynde Is Surprised, A Sleep Story

Drift off to sleep in the gentle world of Avonlea in 1900s Prince Edward Island. Each selection in this series of bedtime tales from the world of Lucy Maud Montgomery stands alone and can be listened to in any order. Tonight, Mrs. Lynde learns that her neighbours, the Cuthberts, have adopted a child, who will be arriving shortly.

Narrated and lightly abridged by Kathryn Green
Text from Anne of Green Gables, chapter 1, by L.M. Montgomery
Music by BlackPyBeats
Photo by Kendell Hoopes

Transcript

Welcome to Avonlea at Night.

My name is Katherine,

And I will be sharing stories with you from the magical world of Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Night is falling over Avonlea as the sky deepens from twilight hues to velvety midnight blue.

The stars twinkle down.

The wind plays softly through the wheat fields and over the shore,

Where the ocean gently laps against white sands.

As you get comfortable in your bed,

Remember that you are safe and content.

It's time to relax into sleep.

Let's join our friends in Avonlea as you let your mind wander down red roads to a farmhouse with a homey green roof,

Where the low glow of candlelight in the windows welcomes you.

Son of Green Gables Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter One Mrs.

Rachel Lynde is surprised.

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow,

Fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops,

And traversed by a brook that had its source a way back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place.

It was reputed to be an intricate,

Headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods,

With dark secrets of pool and cascade.

But by the time it reached Lynde's hollow,

It was a quiet,

Well-conducted little stream,

For not even a brook could run past Mrs.

Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum.

It probably was conscious that Mrs.

Rachel was sitting at her window,

Keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed from brooks and children up,

And that if she noticed anything odd or out of place,

She would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people in Avonlea,

And out of it,

Who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own.

But Mrs.

Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain.

She was a notable housewife.

Her work was always done and well done.

She ran the sewing circle,

Helped run the Sunday school,

And was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary.

Yet,

With all this,

Mrs.

Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window,

Knitting cotton-warp quilts—she had knitted sixteen of them,

As Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in odd voices—and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond.

Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St.

Lawrence,

With water on two sides of it,

Anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road,

And so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs.

Rachel's all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June.

The sun was coming in at the window,

Warm and bright.

The orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom,

Hummed over by a myriad of bees.

Thomas Lynde,

A meek little man whom Avonlea people called Rachel Lynde's husband,

Was sewing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn,

And Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sewing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables.

Mrs.

Rachel knew that he ought,

Because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before,

In William J.

Blair's store over at Carmody,

That he meant to sew his turnip seed the next afternoon.

Peter had asked him,

Of course,

For Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life.

And yet,

Here was Matthew Cuthbert,

At half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day.

Placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill moreover,

He wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes,

Which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea.

And he had the buggy and the sorrel mare,

Which betokened that he was going a considerable distance.

Now where was Matthew Cuthbert going,

And why was he going there?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea,

Mrs.

Rachel,

Deftly putting this and that together,

Might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions.

But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual.

Which was taking him?

He was the shyest man alive,

And hated to have to go among strangers,

Or to any place where he might have to talk.

Matthew,

Dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy,

Was something that didn't happen often.

Mrs.

Rachel,

Ponder as she might,

Could make nothing of it,

And her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled.

I'll just step over to Green Gables,

After tea,

And find out from Marilla where he's gone and why.

The worthy woman finally concluded.

He doesn't generally go to town this time of year,

And he never visits.

If he'd run out of turnip seed,

He wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more.

He wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor.

Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off.

I'm clean puzzled,

That's what,

And I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.

Accordingly,

After tea,

Mrs.

Rachel set out.

She had not far to go.

The big,

Rambling,

Orchard-empowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynn's Hollow.

To be sure,

The long lane made it a good deal further.

Matthew Cuthbert's father,

As shy and silent as his son after him,

Had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead.

Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land,

And there it was to this day,

Barely visible from the main road,

Along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated.

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place living at all.

It's just staying,

That's what,

She said,

As she stepped along the deep-rutted,

Grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes.

It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little awed,

Living away back here by themselves.

Trees aren't much company,

Though dear knows if they were,

There'd be enough of them.

I'd rather look at people.

To be sure,

They seem contented enough.

But then I suppose they're used to it.

Mrs.

Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables.

Very green and neat and precise was that yard,

Set about on one side with great patriarchal willows,

And the other with prim Lombardies.

Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen,

For Mrs.

Rachel would have seen it,

If there had been,

Privately.

She was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house.

One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt.

Mrs.

Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door,

And stepped in when bidden to do so.

The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment,

Or would have been cheerful,

If it had not been so painfully clean,

As to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor.

Its windows looked east and west.

Through the west one,

Looking out on the backyard,

Came a flood of mellow June sunlight.

But the east one,

Whence you got a good glimpse of the bloom-white cherry trees in the left orchard,

And nodding slender birches down in the hollow by the brook,

Was greened over by a tangle of vines.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert,

When she sat at all,

Always slightly distrustful of sunshine,

Which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously.

And here she sat now,

Knitting,

And the table behind her was laid for supper.

Mrs.

Rachel,

Before she had fairly closed the door,

Had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table.

There were three plates laid,

So that Marilla must be expecting someone home with Matthew to tea.

But the dishes were everyday dishes,

And there was only crabapple preserves and one kind of cake,

So that the expected company could not be any particular company.

Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare?

Mrs.

Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet,

Unmysterious green gables.

Good evening,

Rachel,

Marilla said briskly.

This is a real fine evening,

Isn't it?

Won't you sit down?

How are all your folks?

Something that,

For lack of any other name,

Might be called friendship existed,

And always had existed,

Between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs.

Rachel,

In spite of,

Or perhaps because of,

Their dissimilarity.

Marilla was a tall,

Thin woman,

With ankles and without curves.

Her dark hair showed some grey streaks,

And was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind,

With two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it.

She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience,

Which she was.

But there was a saving something about her mouth,

Which,

If it had been ever so slightly developed,

Might have been considered indicative of a sense of humour.

We are all pretty well,

Said Mrs.

Rachel.

I was kind of afraid you weren't,

Though,

When I saw Matthew starting off today.

I thought maybe he was going to the doctors.

Marilla's lips twitched understandingly.

She had expected Mrs.

Rachel up.

She had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbour's curiosity.

Oh no,

I'm quite well,

Although I had a bad headache yesterday,

She said.

Matthew went to Bright River.

We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia,

And he's coming on the train tonight.

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia,

Mrs.

Rachel could not have been more astonished.

She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds.

It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her.

But Mrs.

Rachel was almost forced to suppose it.

Are you in earnest,

Marilla?

She demanded,

When voice returned to her.

Yes,

Of course,

Said Marilla,

As if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm,

Instead of being an unheard-of innovation.

Mrs.

Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt.

She thought in exclamation points,

A boy.

Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert,

Of all people,

Adopting a boy.

From an orphan asylum?

Well,

The world was certainly turning upside down.

She would be surprised at nothing after this.

Nothing.

What on earth put such a notion into your head?

She demanded disapprovingly.

This had been done without her advice being asked,

And must perforce be disapproved.

Well,

We've been thinking about it for some time.

All winter,

In fact,

Returned Marilla.

Mrs.

Alexandra Spencer was up here one day before Christmas,

And she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring.

Her cousin lives there,

And Mrs.

Spencer has visited here,

And knows all about it.

So Matthew and I have talked it over,

Off and on,

Ever since.

We thought we'd get a boy.

Matthew is getting up in years,

You know.

He's sixty,

And he isn't so spry as he once was.

His heart troubles him a good deal.

And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired help.

In the end,

We decided to ask Mrs.

Spencer to pick us out a boy when she went over to get her little girl.

We heard last week she was going,

So we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart,

Likely boy,

Of about ten or eleven.

We decided that would be the best age.

Old enough to be of some use in doing chores,

Right off.

And young enough to be trained up proper.

We mean to give him a good home and schooling.

We had a telegram from Mrs.

Alexander Spencer today.

The mailman brought it from the station,

Saying they were coming on the 5.

30 train tonight.

So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him.

Mrs.

Spencer will drop him off there.

Of course,

She goes on to White Sands Station herself.

Mrs.

Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind.

She proceeded to speak it now.

Having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.

Well,

Marilla,

I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish thing.

A risky thing,

That's what.

You don't know what you're getting.

You're bringing a strange child into your house and home,

And you don't know a single thing about him.

Nor what his disposition is like.

Nor what sort of parents he had.

Nor how he's likely to turn out.

Mrs.

Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla.

She knitted steadily on.

I don't deny there's something in what you say,

Rachel.

I've had some qualms myself.

But Matthew was terrible set on it.

I could see that,

So I gave in.

It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does,

I always feel it's my duty to give in.

And as for the risks,

There's risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world.

There's risks in people's having children of their own,

If it comes to that.

They don't always turn out well.

And then Nova Scotia is right close to the island.

It isn't as if we were getting him from England or the States.

He can't be much different from ourselves.

Well,

I hope it will turn out all right,

Said Mrs.

Rachel,

In a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts.

I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child sucked eggs.

They couldn't break the child of it.

Only it was a girl in that instance.

Well,

We're not getting a girl,

Said Marilla.

I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up.

I wonder at Mrs.

Alexander Spencer for doing it.

But there,

She wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.

Mrs.

Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan.

But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival,

She concluded to go up the road to Robert Bell's and tell the news.

It would certainly make a sensation second to none.

And Mrs.

Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation.

So she took herself away,

Somewhat to Marilla's relief,

For the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs.

Rachel's pessimism.

Well,

Of all things that ever were or will be,

Ejaculated Mrs.

Rachel when she was safely out in the lane,

It does really seem as if I must be dreaming.

Well,

I'm sorry for that poor young one and no mistake.

Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children,

And they'll expect him to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather.

If so be's he ever had a grandfather.

It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gables somehow.

There's never been one there.

For Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built.

If they were ever children,

Which is hard to believe when one looks at them,

I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything.

My,

But I pity him.

That's what.

So said Mrs.

Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fullness of her heart.

But if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River Station at that very moment,

Her pity would have been still deeper and more profound.

This is Katherine Green wishing you pleasant dreams and looking forward to joining you again for Chapter Two of Lucy Maude Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables.

Reviews

Thank you for this much loved Tale. Would you please place Episode 2 in the notification updates so I/we don't mix them up? Many thanks. 🙏Léna🪷 😊🐈‍⬛🐆

Oddly, at 15+ minutes into the recording, there is the intro, that belongs at the beginning.