The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Let’s go to India,” dad would say . . . and they went . . . though Jane would sew buttons on dad’s shirts all the way. Min’s ma was hard on buttons. Soon Jane knew all the fair lands far, far away as she knew Lantern Hill . . . or so it seemed to her after she had journeyed through them with father.

  “Some day, Jane, you and I will really go and see them. The Land of the Midnight Sun . . . doesn’t that phrase fascinate you, Jane? . . . far Cathay . . . Damascus . . . Samarkand . . . Japan in cherry-blossom time . . . Euphrates among its dead empires . . . moonrise over Karnak . . . lotus vales in Kashmir . . . castles on the banks of the Rhine. There’s a villa in the Apennines . . . ‘the cloudy Apennines’ . . . I want you to see, my Jane. Meanwhile, let’s draw a chart of Lost Atlantis.”

  “Next year I’ll be beginning French,” said Jane. “I think I’ll like that.”

  “You will. You’ll wake up to the fascination of languages. Think of them as doors opening into a stately palace for you. You’ll even like Latin, dead and all as it is. Isn’t a dead language rather a sad thing, Janet? Once it lived and burned and glowed. People said loving things in it . . . bitter things . . . wise and silly things in it. I wonder who was the very last person to utter a sentence in living Latin. Jane, how many boots would a centipede need if a centipede needed boots?”

  That was dad all over. Tender . . . serious . . . dreamy . . . and then a tag of some delightful nonsense. But Jane knew just how grandmother would have liked that.

  Sundays were interesting at Lantern Hill not only because of the Bible readings with dad but because she went to the Queen’s Shore church with the Jimmy Johns in the mornings. Jane liked it tremendously. She put on the little green linen jumper dress grandmother had bought her and carried a hymn-book proudly. They went across the fields by a path that wound around the edge of Big Donald’s woods, through a cool back pasture where sheep grazed, down the road past Min’s ma’s house, where Min joined them, and finally along a grassy lane to what was called “the little south church” . . . a small white building set in a grove of beech and spruce where lovable winds seemed always purring. Anything less like St Barnabas’s could hardly be imagined but Jane liked it. The windows were plain glass and you could see out of them right into the woods and past the big wild cherry-tree that grew close up to the church. Jane wished she could have seen it in blossom time. All the people had what Step-a-yard called their Sunday faces on and Elder Tommy Perkins looked so solemn and other-worldly that Jane found it almost impossible to believe that he was the same man as the jolly Tommy Perkins of weekdays. Mrs Little Donald always passed her a peppermint over the top of the pew and though Jane didn’t like peppermints she seemed to like that one. There was, she reflected, something so nice and religious about its flavour.

  For the first time Jane could join in the singing of the hymns and she did it lustily. Nobody at 60 Gay had ever supposed Jane could sing; but she found that she could at least follow a tune and was duly thankful therefor, as otherwise she would have felt like an outsider at the Jimmy Johns’ “sing-songs” in their old orchard on Sunday evenings. In a way Jane thought the sing-songs the best part of Sunday. All the Jimmy Johns sang like linnets and everybody could have his or her favourite hymn in turn. They sang what Step-a-yard, who carried a tremendous bass, called “giddier” hymns than were sung in church, out of little dog-eared, limp-covered hymn-books. Sometimes the stay-at-home dog tried to sing, too. Beyond them was the beauty of a moonlit sea.

  They always ended up with “God Save the King” and Jane went home, escorted to the door of Lantern Hill by all the Jimmy Johns and the three dogs who didn’t stay at home. Once dad was sitting in the garden, on the stone seat Timothy Salt had built for her, smoking his Old Contemptible and “enjoying the beauty of the darkness,” as he said. Jane sat down beside him and he put his arm around her. First Peter prowled darkly around them. It was so still they could hear the cows grazing in Jimmy John’s field and so cool that Jane was glad of the warmth of father’s tweed arm across her shoulders. Still and cool and sweet . . . and in Toronto at that moment every one was gasping in a stifling heat wave, so the Charlottetown paper had said yesterday. But mother was with friends in Muskoka. It was poor Jody who would be smothering in that hot little attic room. If only Jody were here!

  “Jane,” dad was saying, “should I have sent for you last spring?”

  “Of course,” said Jane.

  “But should I? Did it hurt . . . anybody?”

  Jane’s heart beat more quickly. It was the first time dad had ever come so near to mentioning mother.

  “Not very much . . . because I would be home in September.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, you will go back in September.”

  Jane waited for something more but it did not come.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Do you ever see anything of Jody?” wrote Jane to mother. “I wonder if she is getting enough to eat. She never says she isn’t in her letters . . . I’ve had three . . . but sometimes they sound hungry to me. I still love her best of all my friends but Shingle Snowbeam and Polly Garland and Min are very nice. Shingle is making great progress. She always washes behind her ears now and keeps her nails clean. And she never throws spit balls though she thinks it was great fun. Young John throws them. Young John is collecting bottle caps and wears them on his shirt. We are all saving bottle caps for him.

  “Miranda and I decorate the church every Saturday night with flowers. We have a good many of our own and we get some from the Titus ladies. We go over on Ding-dong’s brother’s truck to get them. They live at a place called Brook Valley. Isn’t that a nice name? Miss Justina is the oldest and Miss Violet the youngest. They are both tall and thin and very ladylike. They have a lovely garden, and if you want to stand in well with them, Miranda says you must compliment them on their garden. Then they will do anything for you. They have a cherry walk which is wonderful in spring, Miranda says. They are both pillows in the church and every one respects them highly, but Miss Justina has never forgiven Mr Snowbeam because he once called her ‘Mrs’ when he was absent-minded. He said he would have thought she’d be pleased.

  “Miss Violet is going to teach me hemstitching. She says every lady ought to know how to sew. Her face is old but her eyes are young. I am very fond of them both.

  “Sometimes they quarrel. They have had a bad time this summer over a rubber plant that was their mother’s who died last year. They both think it ugly but sacred and would never dream of throwing it away, but Miss Violet thinks that now their mother is gone they could keep it in the back hall, but Miss Justina said, no, it must stay in the parlour. Sometimes they would not speak to each other on account of it. I told them I thought they might keep it in the parlour one week and in the back hall one week, turn about. They were very much struck with the idea and adopted it and now everything is smooth at Brook Valley.

  “Miranda sang ‘Abide with Me’ in church last Sunday night. (They have preaching at night once a month.) She says she loves to sing because she always feels thin when she sings. She is so fat she is afraid she will never have any beaus but Step-a-yard says no fear, the men like a good armful. Was that coarse, mummy? Mrs Snowbeam says it was.

  “We sing every Sunday night in the Jimmy Johns’ orchard — all sacred songs of course. I like the Jimmy Johns’ orchard. The grass is so nice and long there and the trees grow just as they like. The Jimmy Johns have such fun together. I think a big family is splendid.

  “Punch Jimmy John is teaching me how to run across a stubble-field on bare feet so it won’t hurt. I go barefoot sometimes here. The Jimmy Johns and Snowbeams all do. It’s so nice to run through the cool wet grass and wriggle your toes in the sand and feel wet mud squashing up between them. You don’t mind, do you, mother?

  “Min’s ma does our washing for us. I’m sure I could do it but I am not allowed to. Min’s ma does washing for all the summer boarders at the Harbour Head, too. Min’s ma’s pig was very sick but Uncle Tombstone doctore
d it up and cured it. I’m so glad it got well, for if it had died I don’t know what Min and her ma would have to live on next winter. Min’s ma is noted for her clam chowder. She is teaching me how to make it. Shingle and I dig the clams.

  “I made a cake yesterday and ants got in the icing. I was so mortyfied because we had company for supper. I wish I knew how to keep ants in their place. But Uncle Tombstone says I can make soup that is soup. We are going to have chicken for dinner to-morrow. I’ve promised to save the neck for Young John and a drumstick for Shingle. And oh, mother, the pond is full of trout. We catch them and eat them. Just fancy catching fish in your own pond and frying them for supper.

  “Step-a-yard has false teeth. He always takes them out and puts them in his pocket when he eats. When he is out of an evening and they give him lunch, he always says, ‘Thanks, I’ll call again,’ but if they don’t, he never goes back. He says he has to be self-respecting.

  “Timothy Salt lets me look through his spy-glass. It’s such fun looking at things through the wrong end. They seem so small and far away as if you were in another world.

  “Polly and I found a bed of sweet grass on the sandhills yesterday. I’ve picked a bunch to take back for you, mother. It’s nice to put among handkerchiefs, Miss Violet Titus says.

  “We named the Jimmy Johns’ calves to-day. We called the pretty ones after people we like and the ugly ones after people we don’t like.

  “Shingle and Polly and I are to sell candy at the ice-cream social in the Corners hall next week.

  “We all made a fire of driftwood on the shore the other night and danced about it.

  “Penny Snowbeam and Punch Jimmy John are very busy now bugging potatoes. I don’t like potato bugs. When Punch Jimmy John said I was a brave girl because I wasn’t afraid of mice, Penny said, ‘Oh ho, put a bug on her and see how brave she’ll be.’ I am glad Punch did not put me to the test because I am afraid I could not have stood it.

  “The front door had got sticky so I borrowed Step-a-yard’s plane and fixed it. I also patched Young John’s trousers. Mrs Snowbeam said she’d run out of patches and his little bottom was almost bare.

  “Mrs Little Donald is going to show me how to make marmalade. She puts hers up in such dinky little stone jars her aunt left her, but I’ll have to put mine in sealers.

  “Uncle Tombstone got me to write a letter to his wife who is visiting in Halifax. I started it ‘My dear wife’ but he said he never called her that and it might give her a turn and I’d better put ‘Dear Ma.’ He says he can write himself but it is the spelling sticks him.

  “Mummy, I love you, love you, love you.”

  Jane laid her head down on the letter and swallowed a lump in her throat. If only mother were here . . . with her and daddy . . . going swimming with them . . . lying on the sand with them . . . eating fresh trout out of the pond with them . . . laughing with them over the little household jokes that were always coming up . . . running with them under the moon . . . how beautiful everything would be!

  CHAPTER 25

  Little Aunt Em had sent word to Lantern Hill that Jane Stuart was to come and see her.

  “You must go,” said dad. “Little Aunt Em’s invitations are like those of royalty in this neck of the woods.”

  “Who is little Aunt Em?”

  “Blest if I know exactly. She’s either Mrs Bob Barker or Mrs Jim Gregory. I never can remember which of them was her last husband. Anyway, it doesn’t matter . . . everybody calls her Little Aunt Em. She’s about as high as my knee and so thin she once blew over the harbour and back. But she’s a wise old goblin. She lives on that little side-road you were asking about the other day and does weaving and spinning and dyeing rug rags. Dyes them in the good old-fashioned way with herbs and barks and lichens. What Little Aunt Em doesn’t know about the colours you can get that way isn’t worth knowing. They never fade. Better go this evening, Jane. I’ve got to get the third canto of my Methuselah epic done this evening. I’ve only got the young chap along as far as his first three hundred years.”

  At first Jane had believed with a touching faith in that epic of Methuselah. But now it was just a standing joke at Lantern Hill. When dad said he must knock off another canto, Jane knew he had to write some profound treatise for Saturday Evening and must not be disturbed. He did not mind having her around when he wrote poetry — love lyrics, idylls, golden sonnets — but poetry did not pay very well and Saturday Evening did.

  Jane set out after supper for Little Aunt Em’s. The Snowbeams, who had already missed one excitement that afternoon, wanted to go with her in a body, but Jane refused their company. Then they were all mad and — with the exception of Shingle who decided it wasn’t ladylike to push yourself in where you weren’t wanted and went home to Hungry Cove — persisted in accompanying Jane for quite a distance, walking close to the fence in exaggerated awe and calling out taunts as she marched disdainfully down the middle of the road.

  “Ain’t it a pity her ears stick out?” said Penny.

  Jane knew her ears didn’t stick out so this didn’t worry her. But the next thing did.

  “S’posen you meet a crocodile on the side-road?” called Caraway. “That’d be worse than a cow.”

  Jane winced. How in the world did the Snowbeams know she was afraid of cows? She thought she had hidden that very cleverly.

  The Snowbeams had got their tongues loosened up now and peppered Jane with a perfect barrage of insults.

  “Did you ever see such a high-and-lofty, stuck-up minx?”

  “Proud as a cat driving a buggy, ain’t you?”

  “Too grand for the likes of us.”

  “I always said you’d a proud mouth.”

  “Do you think Little Aunt Em will give you any lunch?”

  “If she does I know what it will be,” yelled Penny. “Raspberry vinegar and two cookies and a sliver of cheese. Yah! Who’d eat that? Yah!”

  “I’ll bet you’re afraid of the dark.”

  Jane, who was not in the least afraid of the dark, still preserved a withering silence.

  “You’re a foreigner,” said Penny.

  Nothing else they had said mattered. Jane knew her Snowbeams. But this infuriated her. She — a foreigner! In her own darling Island where she had been born! She stopped short at Penny.

  “Just you wait,” she said with concentrated venom, “till the next time any of you want to scrape a bowl.”

  The Snowbeams all stopped short. They had not thought of this. Better not rile Jane Stuart any more.

  “Aw, we didn’t mean to hurt your feelings . . . honest,” protested Caraway. They promptly started homeward but the irrepressible Young John yelled, “Good-bye, Collarbones,” as he turned.

  Jane, after she had shrugged off the Snowbeams, had a good time with herself on that walk. That she could go where she liked over the countryside, unhindered, uncriticized, was one of the most delightful things about her life at Lantern Hill. She was glad of an excuse to explore the side-road where Little Aunt Em lived. She had often wondered where it went to — that timid little red road, laced with firs and spruces, that tried to hide itself by twisting and turning. The air was full of the scent of sun-warmed grasses gone to seed, the trees talked all about her in some lost sweet language of elder days, rabbits hopped out of the ferns and into them. In a little hollow she saw a faded sign by the side of the road . . . straggling black letters on a white board, put up years agone by an old man, long since dead. “Ho, every one that thirsteth come ye to the waters.” Jane followed the pointing finger down a fairy path between the trees and found a deep clear spring, rimmed in by mossy stones. She stooped and drank, cupping the water in her brown palm. A squirrel was impudent to her from an old beech and Jane sassed him back. She would have liked to linger there but the western sky above the tree-tops was already filled with golden rays, and she must hasten. When she passed up out of the brook hollow, she saw Little Aunt Em’s house curled up like a cat on the hillside. A long lane led up to it, edg
ed with clumps of white and gold life-everlasting. When Jane reached the house she found Little Aunt Em spinning on a little wheel set before her kitchen door, with a fascinating pile of silvery wool rolls lying on the bench beside her. She stood up when Jane opened the gate — she was really a little higher than dad’s knee but she was not so tall as Jane. She wore an old felt hat that had belonged to one of her husbands on her rough, curly grey head, and her little black eyes twinkled in a friendly fashion in spite of her blunt question.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jane Stuart.”

  “I knew it,” said Aunt Em in a tone of triumph. “I knew it the minute I saw you walking up the lane. You can always tell a Stuart anywhere you see him by his walk.”

  Jane had her own way of walking . . . quickly but not jerkily, lightly but firmly. The Snowbeams said she strutted but Jane did not strut. She felt very glad that Little Aunt Em thought she walked like the Stuarts. And she liked Little Aunt Em at first sight.

  “You might come and sit down a spell if you’ve a mind to,” said Little Aunt Em, offering a wrinkled brown hand. “I’ve finished this lick of work I was doing for Mrs Big Donald. Ah, I’m not up to much now but I was a smart woman in my day, Jane Stuart.”

  Not a floor in Aunt Em’s house was level. Each one sloped in a different direction. It was not notoriously tidy but there was a certain hominess about it that Jane liked. The old chair she sat down in was a friend.

  “Now we can have a talk,” said Little Aunt Em. “I’m in the humour for it to-day. When I’m not, nobody can get a word out of me. Let me get my knitting. I neither tat, sew, embroider nor crochet, but the hull Maritimes can’t beat me knitting. I’ve been wanting to see you for some time . . . everybody’s talking about you. I’m hearing you’re smart. Mrs Big Donald says you can cook like a blue streak. Where did you learn it?”