The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Day I’ll have a great one to tell of us being so scared.”

  Pat presently came galloping up the orchard, carrying in his mouth a big field mouse, which, sitting down before us, he proceeded to devour, body and bones, afterwards licking his chops with great satisfaction.

  “It can’t be the Judgment Day,” said Sara Ray, brightening up.

  “Paddy would never be eating mice if it was.”

  “If that clock doesn’t soon strike two I shall go out of my seven senses,” declared Cecily with unusual vehemence.

  “Time always seems long when you’re waiting,” said the Story Girl. “But it does seem as if we had been here more than an hour.”

  “Maybe the clock struck and we didn’t hear it,” suggested Dan.

  “Somebody’d better go and see.”

  “I’ll go,” said Cecily. “I suppose, even if anything happens,

  I’ll have time to get back to you.”

  We watched her white-clad figure pass through the gate and enter the front door. A few minutes passed — or a few years — we could not have told which. Then Cecily came running at full speed back to us. But when she reached us she trembled so much that at first she could not speak.

  “What is it? Is it past two?” implored the Story Girl.

  “It’s — it’s four,” said Cecily with a gasp. “The old clock isn’t

  going. Mother forgot to wind it up last night and it stopped.

  But it’s four by the kitchen clock — so it isn’t the Judgment

  Day — and tea is ready — and mother says to come in.”

  We looked at each other, realizing what our dread had been, now that it was lifted. It was not the Judgment Day. The world and life were still before us, with all their potent lure of years unknown.

  “I’ll never believe anything I read in the papers again,” said

  Dan, rushing to the opposite extreme.

  “I told you the Bible was more to be depended on than the newspapers,” said Cecily triumphantly.

  Sara Ray and Peter and the Story Girl went home, and we went in to tea with royal appetites. Afterwards, as we dressed for Sunday School upstairs, our spirits carried us away to such an extent that Aunt Janet had to come twice to the foot of the stairs and inquire severely, “Children, have you forgotten what day this is?”

  “Isn’t it nice that we’re going to live a spell longer in this nice world?” said Felix, as we walked down the hill.

  “Yes, and Felicity and the Story Girl are speaking again,” said

  Cecily happily.

  “And Felicity DID speak first,” I said.

  “Yes, but it took the Judgment Day to make her. I wish,” added Cecily with a sigh, “that I hadn’t been in quite such a hurry giving away my forget-me-not jug.”

  “And I wish I hadn’t been in such a hurry deciding I’d be a

  Presbyterian,” said Peter.

  “Well, it’s not too late for that,” said Dan. “You can change your mind now.”

  “No, sir,” said Peter with a flash of spirit, “I ain’t one of the kind that says they’ll be something just because they’re scared, and when the scare is over go back on it. I said I’d be Presbyterian and I mean to stick to it.”

  “You said you knew a story that had something to do with

  Presbyterians,” I said to the Story Girl. “Tell us it now.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t the right kind of story to tell on Sunday,” she replied. “But I’ll tell it to-morrow morning.”

  Accordingly, we heard it the next morning in the orchard.

  “Long ago, when Judy Pineau was young,” said the Story Girl, “she was hired with Mrs. Elder Frewen — the first Mrs. Elder Frewen. Mrs. Frewen had been a school-teacher, and she was very particular as to how people talked, and the grammar they used. And she didn’t like anything but refined words. One very hot day she heard Judy Pineau say she was ‘all in a sweat.’ Mrs. Frewen was greatly shocked, and said, ‘Judy, you shouldn’t say that. It’s horses that sweat. You should say you are in a perspiration.’ Well, Judy promised she’d remember, because she liked Mrs. Frewen and was anxious to please her. Not long afterwards Judy was scrubbing the kitchen floor one morning, and when Mrs. Frewen came in Judy looked up and said, quite proud over using the right word, ‘Oh, Mees Frewen, ain’t it awful hot? I declare I’m all in a Presbyterian.’”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  DREAMERS OF DREAMS

  August went out and September came in. Harvest was ended; and though summer was not yet gone, her face was turned westering. The asters lettered her retreating footsteps in a purple script, and over the hills and valleys hung a faint blue smoke, as if Nature were worshipping at her woodland altar. The apples began to burn red on the bending boughs; crickets sang day and night; squirrels chattered secrets of Polichinelle in the spruces; the sunshine was as thick and yellow as molten gold; school opened, and we small denizens of the hill farms lived happy days of harmless work and necessary play, closing in nights of peaceful, undisturbed slumber under a roof watched over by autumnal stars.

  At least, our slumbers were peaceful and undisturbed until our orgy of dreaming began.

  “I would really like to know what especial kind of deviltry you young fry are up to this time,” said Uncle Roger one evening, as he passed through the orchard with his gun on his shoulder, bound for the swamp.

  We were sitting in a circle before the Pulpit Stone, each writing diligently in an exercise book, and eating the Rev. Mr. Scott’s plums, which always reached their prime of juicy, golden-green flesh and bloomy blue skin in September. The Rev. Mr. Scott was dead and gone, but those plums certainly kept his memory green, as his forgotten sermons could never have done.

  “Oh,” said Felicity in a shocked tone, when Uncle Roger had passed by, “Uncle Roger SWORE.”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t,” said the Story Girl quickly. “‘Deviltry’ isn’t swearing at all. It only means extra bad mischief.”

  “Well, it’s not a very nice word, anyhow,” said Felicity.

  “No, it isn’t,” agreed the Story Girl with a regretful sigh. “It’s very expressive, but it isn’t nice. That is the way with so many words. They’re expressive, but they’re not nice, and so a girl can’t use them”

  The Story Girl sighed again. She loved expressive words, and treasured them as some girls might have treasured jewels. To her, they were as lustrous pearls, threaded on the crimson cord of a vivid fancy. When she met with a new one she uttered it over and over to herself in solitude, weighing it, caressing it, infusing it with the radiance of her voice, making it her own in all its possibilities for ever.

  “Well, anyhow, it isn’t a suitable word in this case,” insisted

  Felicity. “We are not up to any dev — any extra bad mischief.

  Writing down one’s dreams isn’t mischief at all.”

  Certainly it wasn’t. Surely not even the straitest sect of the grown-ups could call it so. If writing down your dreams, with agonizing care as to composition and spelling — for who knew that the eyes of generations unborn might not read the record? — were not a harmless amusement, could anything be called so? I trow not.

  We had been at it for a fortnight, and during that time we only lived to have dreams and write them down. The Story Girl had originated the idea one evening in the rustling, rain-wet ways of the spruce wood, where we were picking gum after a day of showers. When we had picked enough, we sat down on the moss-grown stones at the end of a long arcade, where it opened out on the harvest-golden valley below us, our jaws exercising themselves vigorously on the spoil of our climbings. We were never allowed to chew gum in school or in company, but in wood and field, orchard and hayloft, such rules were in abeyance.

  “My Aunt Jane used to say it wasn’t polite to chew gum anywhere,” said Peter rather ruefully.

  “I don’t suppose your Aunt Jane knew all the rules of etiquette,” said Felicity, designing to crush Peter with a big word, borrowed from the Family Guide.
But Peter was not to be so crushed. He had in him a certain toughness of fibre, that would have been proof against a whole dictionary.

  “She did, too,” he retorted. “My Aunt Jane was a real lady, even if she was only a Craig. She knew all those rules and she kept them when there was nobody round to see her, just the same as when any one was. And she was smart. If father had had half her git-up-and-git I wouldn’t be a hired boy to-day.”

  “Have you any idea where your father is?” asked Dan.

  “No,” said Peter indifferently. “The last we heard of him he was in the Maine lumber woods. But that was three years ago. I don’t know where he is now, and,” added Peter deliberately, taking his gum from his mouth to make his statement more impressive, “I don’t care.”

  “Oh, Peter, that sounds dreadful,” said Cecily. “Your own father!”

  “Well,” said Peter defiantly, “if your own father had run away when you was a baby, and left your mother to earn her living by washing and working out, I guess you wouldn’t care much about him either.”

  “Perhaps your father may come home some of these days with a huge fortune,” suggested the Story Girl.

  “Perhaps pigs may whistle, but they’ve poor mouths for it,” was all the answer Peter deigned to this charming suggestion.

  “There goes Mr. Campbell down the road,” said Dan. “That’s his new mare. Isn’t she a dandy? She’s got a skin like black satin. He calls her Betty Sherman.”

  “I don’t think it’s very nice to call a horse after your own grandmother,” said Felicity.

  “Betty Sherman would have thought it a compliment,” said the

  Story Girl.

  “Maybe she would. She couldn’t have been very nice herself, or she would never have gone and asked a man to marry her,” said Felicity.

  “Why not?”

  “Goodness me, it was dreadful! Would YOU do such a thing yourself?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said the Story Girl, her eyes gleaming with impish laughter. “If I wanted him DREADFULLY, and HE wouldn’t do the asking, perhaps I would.”

  “I’d rather die an old maid forty times over,” exclaimed

  Felicity.

  “Nobody as pretty as you will ever be an old maid, Felicity,” said Peter, who never put too fine an edge on his compliments.

  Felicity tossed her golden tressed head and tried to look angry, but made a dismal failure of it.

  “It wouldn’t be ladylike to ask any one to marry you, you know,” argued Cecily.

  “I don’t suppose the Family Guide would think so,” agreed the Story Girl lazily, with some sarcasm in her voice. The Story Girl never held the Family Guide in such reverence as did Felicity and Cecily. They pored over the “etiquette column” every week, and could have told you on demand, just exactly what kind of gloves should be worn at a wedding, what you should say when introducing or being introduced, and how you ought to look when your best young man came to see you.

  “They say Mrs. Richard Cook asked HER husband to marry her,” said

  Dan.

  “Uncle Roger says she didn’t exactly ask him, but she helped the lame dog over the stile so slick that Richard was engaged to her before he knew what had happened to him,” said the Story Girl. “I know a story about Mrs. Richard Cook’s grandmother. She was one of those women who are always saying ‘I told you so—’”

  “Take notice, Felicity,” said Dan aside.

  “ — And she was very stubborn. Soon after she was married she and her husband quarrelled about an apple tree they had planted in their orchard. The label was lost. He said it was a Fameuse and she declared it was a Yellow Transparent. They fought over it till the neighbours came out to listen. Finally he got so angry that he told her to shut up. They didn’t have any Family Guide in those days, so he didn’t know it wasn’t polite to say shut up to your wife. I suppose she thought she would teach him manners, for would you believe it? That woman did shut up, and never spoke one single word to her husband for five years. And then, in five years’ time, the tree bore apples, and they WERE Yellow Transparents. And then she spoke at last. She said, ‘I told you so.’”

  “And did she talk to him after that as usual?” asked Sara Ray.

  “Oh, yes, she was just the same as she used to be,” said the Story Girl wearily. “But that doesn’t belong to the story. It stops when she spoke at last. You’re never satisfied to leave a story where it should stop, Sara Ray.”

  “Well, I always like to know what happens afterwards,” said Sara

  Ray.

  “Uncle Roger says he wouldn’t want a wife he could never quarrel with,” remarked Dan. “He says it would be too tame a life for him.”

  “I wonder if Uncle Roger will always stay a bachelor,” said

  Cecily.

  “He seems real happy,” observed Peter.

  “Ma says that it’s all right as long as he is a bachelor because he won’t take any one,” said Felicity, “but if he wakes up some day and finds he is an old bachelor because he can’t get any one it’ll have a very different flavour.”

  “If your Aunt Olivia was to up and get married what would your

  Uncle Roger do for a housekeeper?” asked Peter.

  “Oh, but Aunt Olivia will never be married now,” said Felicity.

  “Why, she’ll be twenty-nine next January.”

  “Well, o’ course, that’s pretty old,” admitted Peter, “but she might find some one who wouldn’t mind that, seeing she’s so pretty.”

  “It would be awful splendid and exciting to have a wedding in the family, wouldn’t it?” said Cecily. “I’ve never seen any one married, and I’d just love to. I’ve been to four funerals, but not to one single wedding.”

  “I’ve never even got to a funeral,” said Sara Ray gloomily.

  “There’s the wedding veil of the proud princess,” said Cecily, pointing to a long drift of filmy vapour in the southwestern sky.

  “And look at that sweet pink cloud below it,” added Felicity.

  “Maybe that little pink cloud is a dream, getting all ready to float down into somebody’s sleep,” suggested the Story Girl.

  “I had a perfectly awful dream last night,” said Cecily, with a shudder of remembrance. “I dreamed I was on a desert island inhabited by tigers and natives with two heads.”

  “Oh!” the Story Girl looked at Cecily half reproachfully. “Why couldn’t you tell it better than that? If I had such a dream I could tell it so that everybody else would feel as if they had dreamed it, too.”

  “Well, I’m not you,” countered Cecily, “and I wouldn’t want to frighten any one as I was frightened. It was an awful dream — but it was kind of interesting, too.”

  “I’ve had some real int’resting dreams,” said Peter, “but I can’t remember them long. I wish I could.”

  “Why don’t you write them down?” suggested the Story Girl. “Oh—” she turned upon us a face illuminated with a sudden inspiration. “I’ve an idea. Let us each get an exercise book and write down all our dreams, just as we dream them. We’ll see who’ll have the most interesting collection. And we’ll have them to read and laugh over when we’re old and gray.”

  Instantly we all saw ourselves and each other by inner vision, old and gray — all but the Story Girl. We could not picture her as old. Always, as long as she lived, so it seemed to us, must she have sleek brown curls, a voice like the sound of a harpstring in the wind, and eyes that were stars of eternal youth.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  THE DREAM BOOKS

  The next day the Story Girl coaxed Uncle Roger to take her to Markdale, and there she bought our dream books. They were ten cents apiece, with ruled pages and mottled green covers. My own lies open beside me as I write, its yellowed pages inscribed with the visions that haunted my childish slumbers on those nights of long ago.

  On the cover is pasted a lady’s visiting card, on which is written, “The Dream Book of Beverley King.” Cecily had a packet of visiting c
ards which she was hoarding against the day when she would be grown up and could put the calling etiquette of the Family Guide into practice; but she generously gave us all one apiece for the covers of our dream books.

  As I turn the pages and glance over the naïve records, each one beginning, “Last night I dreamed,” the past comes very vividly back to me. I see that bowery orchard, shining in memory with a soft glow of beauty—”the light that never was on land or sea,” — where we sat on those September evenings and wrote down our dreams, when the cares of the day were over and there was nothing to interfere with the pleasing throes of composition. Peter — Dan — Felix — Cecily — Felicity — Sara Ray — the Story Girl — they are all around me once more, in the sweet-scented, fading grasses, each with open dream books and pencil in hand, now writing busily, now staring fixedly into space in search of some elusive word or phrase which might best describe the indescribable. I hear their laughing voices, I see their bright, unclouded eyes. In this little, old book, filled with cramped, boyish writing, there is a spell of white magic that sets the years at naught. Beverley King is a boy once more, writing down his dreams in the old King orchard on the homestead hill, blown over by musky winds.

  Opposite to him sits the Story Girl, with her scarlet rosetted head, her beautiful bare feet crossed before her, one slender hand propping her high, white brow, on either side of which fall her glossy curls.

  There, to the right, is sweet Cecily of the dear, brown eyes, with a little bloated dictionary beside her — for you dream of so many things you can’t spell, or be expected to spell, when you are only eleven. Next to her sits Felicity, beautiful, and conscious that she is beautiful, with hair of spun sunshine, and sea-blue eyes, and all the roses of that vanished summer abloom in her cheeks.

  Peter is beside her, of course, sprawled flat on his stomach among the grasses, one hand clutching his black curls, with his dream book on a small, round stone before him — for only so can Peter compose at all, and even then he finds it hard work. He can handle a hoe more deftly than a pencil, and his spelling, even with all his frequent appeals to Cecily, is a fearful and wonderful thing. As for punctuation, he never attempts it, beyond an occasion period, jotted down whenever he happens to think of it, whether in the right place or not. The Story Girl goes over his dreams after he has written them out, and puts in the commas and semicolons, and straightens out the sentences.