The Blythes Are Quoted

by L. M. Montgomery

  Patrick knew it didn’t matter whether he liked it or not. A party there would be. He wouldn’t know what to do or say. Still, he supposed he could put up with it. He could even say “Thank you” for the expensive gifts his uncles and aunts would give him and which he didn’t want at all.

  “Can I invite Walter Blythe?” he asked.

  Again Aunt Melanie frowned. She could never understand his hankering for those Blythes. They might be all right in their way but ...

  “They live too far away, darling,” she explained. “I don’t think he would be able to come. Besides, he is only a country boy ... not the kind you will be expected to associate with a few years from now.”

  “He is the nicest boy I know,” said Patrick indignantly.

  “Our tastes change as we grow older,” said Aunt Melanie indulgently. “They tell me he is a sissy ... and not over-brave into the bargain.”

  “That isn’t true,” cried Patrick indignantly. “He is nice ... nice. They all are. Mrs. Blythe is the nicest woman I ever knew.”

  “But you haven’t known many women, darling,” said Aunt Melanie. “Certainly Miss Sperry was a poor example. You don’t mean to say that Mrs. Blythe is nicer than ... well, than me, or even Aunt Fanny or Aunt Lilian?”

  Patrick felt he dared not say “yes.”

  On the morning of his birthday Spunk was killed by a passing truck. Aunt Melanie didn’t mind much. A dog was a sort of safeguard against burglars, but one was as good as another. Besides, Spunk had been very tiresome with his bones. All the maids complained about them. And it was very mortifying to have a caller shown into the living room and see a large, well-gnawed bone reposing on the Chesterfield. Not to speak of hairs on the carpet. Aunt Melanie made up her mind she would get a Pekinese. They were so cute, with such darling faces. Patrick would love a Pekinese. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Patrick stood by the gate in dumb misery after the body of poor Spunk had been taken away. He was seething with hot rebellion. The idea of a birthday party when the only thing he cared for in the world had been killed! It wasn’t to be endured ... and he wouldn’t endure it!

  The bus came along ... the big red and yellow bus. Patrick felt in his pocket. He had fifty cents. He ran to the bus stop and told the driver he wanted to go as far as fifty cents would take him.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t go as far as Glen St. Mary?”

  “Well, no, not quite,” said the driver, who had a certain soft spot in his heart for boys. “That would be twenty miles further. Besides, it’s on another route. But I’ll tell you. It will take you as far as Westbridge. Hop on.”

  At first Patrick was too unhappy about Spunk to enjoy this longed-for ride. A chow and a Great Dane, trotting companionably along the road, made his heart ache worse than ever. But by and by pleasure crept in. He imagined that Walter Blythe was with him and that they talked over everything they saw.

  The red road, climbing gradually upward, was beautiful. Spruce woods ... gypsy brooks ... great rolling shadows like those around Glen St. Mary ... gardens full of gay hollyhocks and perennial phlox and marigolds ... like Susan Baker’s own private plot at Ingleside. And the air was so clear and sparkling. He saw something of interest in every place he passed. A big striped cat sitting on the steps of a house ... an old man painting his well house a bright yellow ... a stone wall with a door in it. A door that might ... should ... open into that Other World. He pictured what he and Walter might find there.

  Riding in a bus was jolly ... just what he had expected it to be. In this one thing at least there was no disappointment. And he even laughed a little to himself when he pictured the consternation at Aunt Melanie’s and the frenzied search that must even then be going on.

  Then he saw it. The road had climbed until it had finally reached the top of the far hills you saw from the town.

  And there it was ... unbelievably, there it was. The house he had loved so long. In spite of the fact that he had never seen it save from far away he recognized it at once. It was in a corner where two roads met. He sprang up and asked the driver to let him off. The driver did so, obligingly, in spite of the fact that he did not feel altogether easy about the boy. There was something ... well, a little odd about him ... some difference the good man could not have explained between him and other boys. When he had been on the Glen St. Mary route a boy like that used sometimes to travel on the bus ... a Walter Blythe, who gave one the same uncomfortable impression of not belonging to this world.

  Patrick saw the bus roll away without any regret ... any wonderment as to how he was to get back to town. He didn’t care if he never got back. Let them hunt for him until they found him. He looked about him devouringly.

  There was a gate with arched rustic lettering over it ... “Sometyme Farm.” Sometyme! What a delightful name! The house beyond was a white clapboarded one and it looked friendly. There was something about it that reminded him of Ingleside, though Ingleside was of brick and this of lumber.

  The woods that had seemed so near to it when he had looked up from the town were really quite a distance away from it but there were trees all about it ... great-armed maples and birches like slim silver ghosts, and spruces everywhere, little rows of them running along the fences. It looked just like one of the Glen St. Mary farms.

  The funny thing was that when you were looking south at it, you didn’t seem to be on a hill at all. Before you was a long level land of farms and orchards. It was only when you turned north and looked away down ... away over the town ... over the sea ... that you realized how very high up in the world you were.

  Patrick had the strangest sensation of having seen it all before. Perhaps in that Other World that was daily becoming more real to him. Even the name seemed familiar to him.

  A young man was leaning over the gate, whittling out a little wooden peg. A dog was sitting by him ... a lemon-and-white setter, with beautiful eyes. The young man was tall and lean and sunburned with bright blue eyes and a rather untidy mane of red-gold hair.

  He had a smile Patrick liked ... a real smile.

  “Hello, stranger,” he said. “What do you think of the weather?”

  His voice was as nice as everything else about him. It was, somehow, a voice you knew. Yet, as far as Patrick knew, he had never seen him before.

  “The weather is all right,” said Patrick.

  “Meaning that it is about the only thing that is all right?” said the young man. “I am inclined to agree with you. But isn’t the view something? Strangers are always raving about it. You can see twenty miles from here. You can see as far as the harbour at Glen St. Mary ... Four Winds they call it.” Patrick looked eagerly in the direction indicated.

  “That is where Walter Blythe lives,” he said. “Do you know the Blythes?”

  “Who doesn’t?” said the young man. “But, apart from the weather and the view, I perceive that, like everyone else on this misbegotten planet, you have troubles of your own.”

  Patrick was moved to confide. It was a strange feeling. He had never before experienced it, save at Ingleside.

  “Our dog Spunk was killed this morning and I just had to come away for the day. Aunt Melanie was having a birthday party for me ... but I couldn’t stay for it.”

  “Of course you couldn’t! Who would expect you to? The things people do! May I ask your name, now?”

  “I’m ... I’m Pat Brewster.”

  He was Pat Brewster. He had experienced a rebirth. The young man had dropped the wooden peg and fumbled a little before he found it.

  “Oh ... ah ... yes. Well, mine is Bernard Andrews ... or, if you would prefer it, Barney. How does it strike you?”

  “I like it,” said Pat, who wondered why Barney was looking at him so intently. Also, why he had again that queer feeling of having seen Barney before. He was sure he couldn’t have.

  After a moment the intentness faded out of Barney’s expression and the twinkle reappeared. He opened the gate.

  “If you left Charlot
tetown on the eleven o’clock bus you must be hungry,” he said. “Won’t you come in and have a bite of dinner with us?”

  “Won’t it inconvenience you?” asked Pat politely. He knew how Aunt Melanie regarded unexpected company ... no matter how sweet she was to their faces.

  “Not a bit. Unexpected company never rattles us. We just put some more water in the soup.”

  Pat went in joyfully. Barney dropped the new peg into the slot and turned to see Pat caressing the dog.

  “Don’t pet Jiggs till after dinner, please,” said Barney, quite seriously. “He was mean. He went and ate up all the poor cat’s morning rations. He’s done it several times ... and her with seven children depending on her. If you pet him he’ll think he’s forgiven too soon. He’ll soon learn that he mustn’t do it ... he’s fond of being petted. You have to use different methods with different dogs, you know. How did you discipline Spunk?”

  “He was never disciplined,” said Pat.

  Barney shook his head.

  “Ah, that’s a mistake. Every dog needs some disciplining ... and most of them need their own especial form. But after dinner you may pet him all you like.”

  They went towards the house through a garden that had run a little wild and yet had a lovely something about it that seemed to tell of children who had once played there and played no more.

  The walk was edged with geraniums and quahogs ... just like Susan Baker’s garden at Ingleside. In fact, there was something curiously like Ingleside about the whole place ... and yet they were really not a bit alike. Ingleside was a rather stately brick house while this was just a common farmhouse.

  In the grassy front yard was an old boat full of gay petunias and they walked on a row of smooth, worn, old stepping stones that looked as if they had been there for a hundred years. There was another house just opposite across the side road ... a friendly house, too, with a dot of scarlet in the yard.

  And, coming around the house, was a long lovely line of snow-white ducks.

  “I have been here before,” cried Pat. “Long ago ... when I was very small ... I remember it ... I remember ducks just like that.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Barney composedly. “We have always kept ducks ... white ducks. And lots of people come here. We sell eggs.”

  Pat was so shaken by his discovery that he could hardly speak to the cat, who said “Meow” very politely to him in the porch, beside a basketful of kittens. She was a fine corpulent cat in spite of Jiggs.

  “Do you happen to want a kitten?” asked Barney. “We are fond of cats here ... but eight are rather too many, even for Sometyme. Walter down at Ingleside has bespoken one, much to Susan’s indignation ...”

  “Oh, do you know the Ingleside people?” cried Pat, feeling that here was another link between them.

  “I know the young fry very well. They come here for eggs sometimes for all it is so far away. And here’s Aunt Holly,” added Barney, opening the brown kitchen door. “Don’t be afraid of her ... all good fellows are friends of hers.” Pat wasn’t in the least afraid of her. She was a frail old woman with a lined face. He liked the pleasant kindliness of her eyes.

  She ushered him into a little bedroom off the kitchen and left him there to wash his hands. Pat thought the bedroom was old and gentle, just like the house ... just like Aunt Holly. There was a clean, threadbare carpet on the floor and a pitcher and basin of clouded blue ware.

  There was a door opening right into the garden, held back by a big pink conch shell. Now, where had he seen a pink shell like that before? Suddenly he remembered. Susan Baker at Ingleside had one at her bedroom door. She said her uncle, who had been a sailor, had brought it to her from the West Indies.

  Pat thought it would be delightful to creep into that bed at night, under the gay patchwork quilt, leaving the door open so that he could see the hollyhocks and stars through it, just like they could from the sleeping porch at Ingleside. But he knew it was vain to hope it. Long before night Aunt Melanie would have found him, if she had to call out the police.

  “Will you have your dinner now or wait till you get it?” demanded Barney with a grin, when Pat had returned to the kitchen, with hands scrubbed as clean as hands could be.

  “I’ll have it now, please and thank you,” grinned Pat in return. It was really the first time in his life he had ever grinned, though he had been trained to smile very politely.

  There did not seem to be any soup after all but there was abundance of cold ham and scalloped potatoes. Barney passed him a heaping plateful.

  “I expect boys’ appetites haven’t changed much since I was a lad,” he said. “I know Susan Baker is always complaining that she can never get the Ingleside boys filled up. Girls now seem different.”

  Pat discovered that he was very hungry and nothing had ever tasted so good to him. Nobody talked much ... Barney seemed absorbed in some reflections which Pat had an idea were not happy ones. Though he could not understand how anyone could live at Sometyme Farm and not be happy.

  Jiggs sat beside Pat and occasionally thumped his tail placatingly on the floor. Once he went out to the porch, licked the cat’s head and returned. The time of his discipline was not yet up but Pat slipped him an occasional bit of ham while Barney pretended not to notice.

  They had apple pie with thick cream for dessert. And besides all that Pat felt somehow that he was eating the very bread of life.

  “How are you going to spend the afternoon, Pat?” asked Barney, when nobody could eat any more. To be sure, Aunt Holly hadn’t eaten much but she had kept pecking, and Barney didn’t seem to have as much appetite as you would expect from his inches.

  “Please, may I spend it here?” said Pat.

  “The word is with you,” said Barney. “I’ve got to fix the fence behind the barn. Would you like to come and help me?”

  Pat knew Barney was only being polite ... there was really nothing he could do to help ... but he wanted to go.

  “Think your folks won’t be worrying about you?” asked Barney. “Who do you live with ... at present, anyhow?”

  Pat told him.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. I’ll telephone them you are spending the afternoon at Sometyme Farm and that you’ll be back this evening,” said Barney. “How will that do?”

  “I suppose it would be the best way,” said Pat dolefully. He hated the thought of going back to Aunt Melanie’s but of course he had to.

  “I wish I could live here forever,” he said wistfully.

  Barney ignored the wish.

  “Come along,” he said, holding out his hand. Pat took it.

  “I’m glad he hasn’t a fat hand,” thought Pat. “I like the feel of a nice, lean, cool hand ... like Dr. Blythe’s.”

  And he liked to feel, too, that Barney liked him ... really liked him for himself. He knew somehow that he did.

  Pat sat on a big mossy stone on the shady side of the spruce wood behind the barn while Barney worked at the fence. Sometimes it occurred to him that Barney hadn’t really much interest in the fence. But that must be nonsense. Anyone would be interested in such an adorable fence, built of rails ... a “snake fence,” though Pat didn’t know the name ... with all sorts of wild things growing in its corners.

  A chipmunk came out of the spruce wood and chattered to him. He remembered that they had a pet chipmunk at Ingleside and that Walter wrote imaginary letters to it, of which Susan was extremely proud, although she disapproved of his poetry writing.

  Far, far down the sea laughed beyond the golden dunes, just as it did at Ingleside, only so much further away. It was all just as he remembered it. The memory was becoming clearer every instant.

  There were drifts of filmy cloud over the tree-tops ... and a smell of sun-warm grasses all about him. A deep, wonderful content pervaded his entire being. He had never, even at Ingleside, imagined it possible to feel so happy.

  He wanted to stay here forever. Aunt Melanie and the rest of them were millions of years ... millions of miles away
. He knew that at night he would have to go back to Aunt Melanie’s ugly foursquare house in town and be forgiven. But the afternoon was his. Sometyme Farm was his ... it knew him as he knew it.

  In the late afternoon Aunt Holly brought him out a big slice of bread, spread with butter and brown sugar. Just like Susan did at Ingleside. He was amazed to find how hungry he was again ... and how good the simple fare tasted.

  Barney came and sat down beside him while he ate it.

  “What does it feel like to own all those fields?” asked Pat.

  “I’d know what it was like if I did own them,” said Barney bitterly. “In a word ... heaven!”

  He spoke so bitterly that Pat did not dare to ask any more questions. But who owned Sometyme if Barney didn’t? Pat felt quite certain ... though he could not have told why ... that Barney was not a hired man.

  He should own Sometyme. What was wrong?

  When Pat had finished his slice of bread and sugar they went back to the yard. As they entered it Pat felt Barney’s hand tighten on his own slightly.

  A girl was coming across the road from the house on the other side. She had a blue scarf wound around curls that were just the colour of Rilla Blythe’s at Ingleside and she had gay, hazel eyes in a fresh, wind-blown face.

  She had slim golden arms and walked as if she would just as soon fly. The girls at Ingleside walked like that ... and so did Mrs. Blythe, although she was so much older. Pat thought she was just like the spicy geraniums and the fresh new bread and those faraway, golden dunes. Beside her trotted a little girl in a dress of turkey-red print.

  “Why, here are Barbara Anne and the Squaw Baby!” said Barney, pretending to be surprised. Pat wondered why he pretended it. He knew quite well that Barney had seen them coming.

  But Pat had caught a certain look in Barney’s eyes. For his own part, he was more interested in the little girl with the red dress. He liked Rilla Blythe but she never made him feel like that. Besides, he was quite sure Rilla would never stick her tongue out at anybody. She was too well brought up ... and what a tongue-lashing Susan Baker would have given her if she had ever caught her at it. Even Mrs. Blythe would have disapproved.