Before I realized it we were at the little woman’s house. I do not remember even being surprised. She did all there was to be done there, acting unconsciously, I think, like a surgeon, not saying anything but “This,” “That,” or “Shovel, shovel, shovel.” I handed things as she asked or pointed. It was as if her whole will and concentration were being centred on the rose bush, worked right into it, to help fortify it with her wish to make it live, and there was no strength left to form words for me. Soon the earth had been well dug up around the dry, sad little bush. The fish food and bird droppings were mixed into it, and well buried. Then she cut off a centre branch, the only one on the bush with any pride left! Her own good branch she put in its place, tied it on, bound it securely with the damp cotton, braced it up with the old branch which she had just cut off, and there stood the little bush, looking much better, even in bandages! The other branches and dead twigs she trimmed, some off, some just back. Then we went home. Not a soul had passed as we did our task; Victoria still slept as we entered our own yard again.
Our walks for some time were out in the Oak Bay district, of course! The little bush sagged for a few days. We watered it as often as we were there alone. Then one day it began to grow! We had time to take the props away, and most of the cotton off, before the little woman returned, and by that time its leaves were growing and healthy; even the buds were starting.
The little “elf” was puzzled for days. We would see her as we passed, standing, staring at her little bush.
Days later we heard from our Chinese vegetable man that she believed the good Lord had repaid her for tending her sick sister, by making her rose bush grow. We found later that she had been born in the old house, and the rose bush, which she had given many years before to her mother, was only a wild one. No wonder, then, that she was stupefied when the big red roses appeared!
Flowers are a joy, it is said. Well, that bush was as much joy and pleasure to Miss Carr as it ever was to our little elf.
FALLING STARS
WE wish on falling stars as we do with wishbones, I think, whether we believe in such things or not, in the same natural way that we wish those we meet on Christmas Day a Merry Christmas.
When, as a child, I scanned the heavens at night, I remember watching for falling stars and wishing, when they did fall, that they would not have to die.
Miss Carr and I would watch for them, as we sat beside the big studio window on the long winter evenings moulding the clay, making rugs, or crocheting and enjoying the Northern Lights. The stars, it seemed, would grow jealous of our lack of interest, and one would suddenly shoot across the sky, and certainly, for a minute at least, it was the centre of all our attention. We used to wish for silly things, and to make it more fun we wished aloud, trying always to out-do each other.
Miss Carr would often snuggle her little dog up under her chin, as she chuckled, “It is a good thing her wishes do not come true, my little Ginger Pop, because if they did, there would be no room for us. If wishes were horses, you know!” Her companion’s interests were always uppermost in her mind, whether she was serious or joking; it was never too much trouble for her to include in the most casual conversation things which she knew were important to her guest. It was a natural, wonderful gift.
Sometimes she would wish, just casually, that she was not so stout. “It is not that I overeat,” she said, “I guess I just eat too well.” And she would sigh, and smile, and a story was almost always sure to follow.
When she told a story of her childhood she referred to herself as Small, and it was as if the actual child was talking. One story which she used to tell me, and which does not appear in her books, I am sure you will like.
One day, in her Father’s store, she had been given a bag of English sweets, by a salesman. Each was wrapped separately, with a little motto neatly printed. She saved them till she got home, to show her Mother. Later in the day, her Mother asked Small if she had shared her nice candies with her sisters. Imagine the Mother’s surprise when Small answered, “No, Mother, but I saved them all the mottoes; they like reading, you know.” When Miss Carr was telling this story she would chuckle, “Fat! Well, maybe I am.”
One very hot day she had to go a long way up the Gorge on business. As we were busy at the time with some clay orders, it was agreed that she would go on by street car, which ran every half hour. At a set time I should meet her, to carry home the parcels she would have. She dressed in her best, in spite of the heat. Little Woo loved Miss Carr’s new hat. She coaxed, wheedled, flirted, and tried all tricks, coaxing to be allowed to hold the beloved hat! Miss Carr left in high glee. Woo, when she acted up, would cheer anyone on his way.
Her business attended to, she was in the street car on her return journey, when, as they neared the mouth of the Gorge, a strong breeze came up. All the windows were shoved up a little farther to give as many passengers as possible the benefit of the fresh air. As the car was about to start, after taking on a passenger, a sudden rush of air swept Miss Carr’s new hat right out of the window! She jumped to her feet, clutching the parcels, and rushed to the front of the car. The conductor, seeing her coming, thought she had missed her stop. He stopped the car where they were, to let her off. She, of course, thought he knew about the hat! As she walked back, looking everywhere for the hat, the car went on. After searching about, she went up to a boy, who was intent on his fishing beside the tracks, and asked him if he had seen a hat, only a minute or two before. “Sure,” he said, “it lit right beside me, so I tossed it back in the street car window.” He was quite unconcerned and went on with his fishing; as far as he could see, he had done his duty. There was nothing more to be done. She must face either a long walk or a long wait, hatless in the hot sun.
In the meantime I was waiting at the car stop, wondering where she had got to. She arrived on the next car, limping, no hat, her face red (partly from the sun, I will admit!). It was no time for questions, so I took the parcels, patted her arm, and we started home. Late that night, when it was cool (it is always cool on the Island at night), we were at the window, playing with the pets before we went to bed, when a star fell. “I hope Woo finds another hat that suits us,” Miss Carr said; then she told us the story! It had been a nice hat, and a very hot day, but I would not have missed for anything the way she told it.
Emily Carr had a sister who ran a private school for small children. One little boy, Teddy, was rather spoilt but this may have been because he was the victim of an incurable disease and had not long to live. He was a dear little fellow, a very nice looking youngster, and we all did what we could for him. One evening as we were sitting before the big studio window working, he came in to visit us before going to bed, as he very often did. The sisters lived around the corner from each other. If Teddy was escorted across the street at the school, he could come around the corner with no danger spots to worry about. Cars were quite numerous even then, and though Miss Carr did not fear them in any way, she would say wryly, “Horse power was much easier to control when only horses had it.”
As Teddy sat with us this evening, suddenly a star fell, zooming across the sky in a wide arc, as they do. We made our wishes, aloud as usual. Teddy spoke up very seriously, “May I wish too?” he asked. When assured that little boys generally had very good luck with their wishes, he very solemnly said, with his eyes closed tight, “Gee, I wish I could fish.” He sounded so woeful that we all laughed. All but Emily Carr that is; she told Teddy to have a tin, with a worm, ready, and she would take him fishing, she said, the very next day. He was so pleased, and so excited, he asked over and over which star had “jumped” so he could thank it. Childish minds are funny. Here I had been sad for years about the stars, that after granting (I never doubted them!) such wonderful wishes, were lost alone in space, or died, that we might wish. And here was a small five-year-old, with such a happy answer; the stars only jumped!
We all went on the fishing trip next day. No one wan
ted to miss it. The fact that we were less than a block from the studio did not detract from the adventure at all! The hook was a bent pin, and I was elected to put the worm on the hook, as Teddy screwed his face up tight. Then we gave him his little stick and string, and found a suitable place for him to sit, among the lily pads, in Beacon Hill Park. We all sat. He was so very serious about it, one wondered if he was enjoying himself at all. His eyes never left the spot where the little string entered the water.
“Getting any fish, Ted?” I asked him, kindly, simply for something to say. “No, not yet. I don’t think this worm likes fish.” He was so serious we all roared, except Emily Carr! She got to her feet and was gone in a flash. (I knew later that she went alone all the way to town, to a pet store!) Nearly an hour went by. We were becoming bored, but our little fisherman was as intent as ever.
Suddenly from around the bend a little farther along, we heard her call softly. We gathered our things. Teddy was quite crestfallen. When we reached her, she seemed to be contentedly fishing, with a little stick of her own. “No luck yet?” she said to Teddy. “Well, neither have I. Here, Ted, take my rod and keep it quite still.” He was all smiles again, as he sat himself down very carefully. It was only a minute before his line was moving. He stared a minute, unable to move. Then he jumped up, and danced about, almost scared, too excited to take the line from the water. Very gently Miss Carr showed him what to do, “just,” she said, “as real fishermen always do.” When the string came from the water, there, tied to it with a neat little bow, was a very small turtle, only about an inch across! Teddy never gave the lack of the pin, or the knot, a thought! He was sure he had caught it. He told the story many times; it was one of his happiest memories. He kept the turtle alive, by kindness mostly, for years. He never asked to go fishing again, but he never failed to scan the heavens at night, for falling stars. He had a long list of wishes, and he was sure that all he needed to make them come true was a falling star.
Teddy lived to be fifteen years old. He loved both the Miss Carrs deeply.
If you had three wishes? If, after forty years of living, we did suddenly have three wishes! Emily Carr used to say that as we grow older we find we had a lot more fun than we thought we did at the time. The worst times, she said, were the ones spent worrying about the things that never did happen!
A star fell this evening as I sat beside the window darning socks. Three wishes? I have only one, and I will have to survive without its fulfillment.
OLD SHOES
IN the corner of Emily Carr’s basement was an old box, which stood well in behind the furnace. Into it were thrown the old boots and shoes. They were to be used some day, she said, for kindling the furnace. This was the furnace in the now famous House of All Sorts. There were three complete apartments, besides Miss Carr’s own. As you may know, some tenants have a funny way of putting their cast-offs just outside their own door. So their shoes, as well as her own, went into the big box.
The little Chinaman who came twice a week to help with the garden knew the shoes in the box were of no value to anyone except as fuel, so when he was putting the mower away, after cutting the lawns he would always sort through the box. If he found a pair to his liking, he switched them with his own. After seeing many little Chinamen shuffling along in soft little shoes, it is amazing, suddenly, to see one in heavy golf shoes, or white-and-tan oxfords. Miss Carr would smile as she said, “Lee has his false whiskers on today, I see.” Indeed, he looked exactly as if he were wearing a disguise; he could not even walk in his usual manner!
The old shoe box was in plain view from the laundry in the corner of the basement. We often used the most recent addition to the pile in the box as a subject for the stories we told each other as we did the washing. We would make up fantastic tales to help pass the time. The condition of the shoes, some muddy, some stained (clean shoes, it seems, are never cast-offs), would give us a clue to begin on. Miss Carr could spin tales of mystery, of buried treasure (for the mud), of gypsies (for the stains), with wailing violin music and generally a sick horse (for my benefit). The cure for the horse would prove almost impossible to get. The great and wonderful treasure would have to be given up. Tears, fuss, such goings-on, diggings in the night, till finally there would be uncovered, glowing like pearls in the moonlight, the Treasure. It would be daffodil bulbs, or something as silly, so that I would have to laugh, and it would be fed to the horse, of course, who would get better at once, only to find the one and only blacksmith had just been knighted. The stories were silly, not hard to come by. Working as we were, our hands and eyes were busy. If our minds were busy, too, making a story from an old pair of shoes, then the time passed much more quickly, and fingers would work and not tire nearly so soon.
If we were modelling, we judged our stories by the number of pots made during the telling. If we made a great many, our story must have been a good one. Does this sound funny to you? It wasn’t, it was an easy, happy way to pass the time. A dull brain, Miss Carr said, is of no use to anyone. It is up to the owner of the brain to train it. Brains are like brawn, she said, to be worked and fitted, kept in shape by exercise. “Like the shoes, Child, they all come clean and shiny; it is up to us to keep them that way. Shall we work the polish into them, to make them give comfort, or neglect and abuse them? The effort is so small, the satisfaction so great. A story, Baboo: the sea gulls are calling. Why?” Then we were off again! One of us would go along with the tale for a time, then say, “Well?” and that was the cue for the other to take over.
Though Miss Carr loved animals, she hated mice, if they came into the house. Traps were used with no compassion then; she would not tolerate the little fellows inside. When she referred to them then, they were “wild beasties.” But in the late fall when the rains were about to start, they were her “poor little creatures.” All along the garden wall, and under the edge of the fences, would be stuffed many pairs of old oxfords, each with a bit of woolly sock in the toe! I am sure those wild mice families waited for those warm, sturdy little houses to appear. Each would have a family in only a day or so. “The shoes will still be kindling when dried out in the spring,” Miss Carr would say, feeling, I think, an explanation was needed, in case your shoes were there among those in the garden.
I wonder what those “little creatures” do now that they have no kind soul to care for them? So many people go their way alone; Emily Carr was not one of them.
Another little habit of Miss Carr’s, that I loved as a child, may interest you too. When a trap was set for mice, in her pantry, the trap would be carefully baited, the cheese would be tied on securely. But there would always be a generous piece of loose cheese beside the trap so the mouse wouldn’t die with an empty tummy, or with visions of unfulfilled promises in his head!
Deceit she could not stand, and to her traps were deceitful. But the mice had to go. “Life can be very hard,” she would say with a sigh. “Pass me the cheese!”
PUDDINGS
THERE were several of the happenings to Small that Emily Carr told me about that always pleased me to hear; they did not appear in either of her books which dealt with her childhood. You could live Small’s adventures along with her, as the story unfolded. These are so natural I am sure you will enjoy them, as I have done. Though in places they are quite funny to look back on, they reflect the suffering a child can cause herself through an error in judgment, a suffering some adults do not understand at all.
Small had another love in her childhood, besides flowers, birds, and of course, animals. She was mad about perfume, simply yearned for it. Not for her own use, either; that is what was so hard for the adults to understand and what made them so cross with her when, as they said, she wasted it. And do you know how? Some of the prettiest flowers in the large garden had either no perfume at all, or, in some cases, a rather repulsive one. She would go out among the flower beds, smelling this one and that, perfuming any that, in her opinion, needed it.
Small was often criticized for visiting so often with the cow, in her cow-yard. The adults did not like the cowey smell, so, of course, she perfumed the cow, often, with all she could spare. It seemed to her most unfair that she should get into trouble for this.
Once when she was going to a very fancy Sunday School picnic, she had been washed and groomed to the desired sterile point. She had begged and pleaded with one sister, then the other, with her Mother, and the Cook, “to let her have just one small smell.” It was a bit of perfume she wanted so badly, for herself this time, but Mama thought perfume was not suited to little girls.
As the family was entering the carriage, which was drawn up before the door, Small gasped, then turned and ran back into the house. Mother looked at Papa. “She was told to go before we left the house,” she said.
Small ran quickly into the kitchen; she knew just where to find it. She got up on a chair, looked into the cupboard; there it was! Quick! She got the stopper out, tipped the bottle up, on the front of her nice white party dress. It slipped, but she grabbed it before it fell, and put back the nearly-emptied vanilla bottle. There she was with a great stain like cold tea, right down her front! It still smelt very good, though. She ran out and jumped quickly into the place left for her. In the flurry of leaving, no one noticed, for a minute, her predicament. Then, “Who brought the pudding?” someone asked. Eyes and noses started turning here and there. Poor Small, the stain and her sin were soon discovered. After a scolding, it was decided to make her as self-conscious as possible. “You will go to the party as you are. Try to act like a lady. We cannot help your smelling like a pudding.” Poor little sensitive Small! It certainly cured her of her addiction to perfume. It was, I suppose, like tying a dead chicken around the neck of a pup which had killed it.
There is another story, still smelly, that took place before this cure came about. On her Father’s dresser, one day, she noticed a fine, new, very pretty bottle of green liquid. The design was in itself a fancy affair, just the kind to catch any child’s attention. She smelt it. It was delicious! The cork was in much too firmly for her tiny fingers to loosen, so she put it in her mouth, to hold it firmly with her teeth. She turned and twisted the bottle, as she worked on the cork, taking it from her mouth every little while to have another good smell! Suddenly, with no warning, the cork fairly shot out, spilling the green liquid down her chin. She ignored it, and had started putting some on this ear, on that elbow, as she had seen her older sisters do, when her Mother came into the room. “What are you doing, you silly Child?” she said. “Put that down at once. It is your Father’s new hair restorer! Do you want hair all over yourself?” Poor Small! Only she knew it had been spilt on her chin. She watched for days, for the beard she was sure would soon be sprouting, in spite of the terrific scrubbings she had given her poor little face.
Emily Carr As I Knew Her Page 7
