"Do you know," said Anne confidentially, "I've
made up my mind to enjoy this
drive. It's been my experience
that you can nearly always enjoy
things if you make up your mind
firmly that you will. Of course,
you must make it up FIRMLY. I
am not going to think about going
back to the asylum while we're
having our drive. I'm just going
to think about the drive. Oh,
look, there's one little early
wild rose out! Isn't it lovely?
Don't you think it must be glad
to be a rose? Wouldn't it be
nice if roses could talk? I'm
sure they could tell us such
lovely things. And isn't pink
the most bewitching color in
the world? I love it, but I can't
wear it. Redheaded people can't
wear pink, not even in imagination.
Did you ever know of anybody
whose hair was red when she was
young, but got to be another
color when she grew up?"
"No, I don't know as I ever
did," said Marilla mercilessly, "and
I shouldn't think it likely to
happen in your case either."
Anne sighed.
"Well, that
is another hope gone. `My life
is a perfect graveyard
of buried hopes.' That's a sentence
I read in a book once, and I
say it over to comfort myself
whenever I'm disappointed in
anything."
"I don't see where the comforting
comes in myself," said Marilla.
"Why, because
it sounds so nice and romantic,
just as if
I were a heroine in a book, you
know. I am so fond of romantic
things, and a graveyard full
of buried hopes is about as romantic
a thing as one can imagine isn't
it? I'm rather glad I have one.
Are we going across the Lake
of Shining Waters today?"
"We're not
going over Barry's pond, if
that's what you mean
by your Lake of Shining Waters.
We're going by the shore road."
"Shore road sounds nice," said
Anne dreamily. "Is it as nice
as it sounds? Just when you said
`shore road' I saw it in a picture
in my mind, as quick as that!
And White Sands is a pretty name,
too; but I don't like it as well
as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely
name. It just sounds like music.
How far is it to White Sands?"
"It's five
miles; and as you're evidently
bent on talking you
might as well talk to some purpose
by telling me what you know about
yourself."
"Oh, what I KNOW about myself
isn't really worth telling," said
Anne eagerly. "If you'll only
let me tell you what I IMAGINE
about myself you'll think it
ever so much more interesting."
"No, I don't
want any of your imaginings.
Just you stick to
bald facts. Begin at the beginning.
Where were you born and how old
are you?"
"I was eleven last March," said
Anne, resigning herself to bald
facts with a little sigh. "And
I was born in Bolingbroke, Nova
Scotia. My father's name was
Walter Shirley, and he was a
teacher in the Bolingbroke High
School. My mother's name was
Bertha Shirley. Aren't Walter
and Bertha lovely names? I'm
so glad my parents had nice names.
It would be a real disgrace to
have a father named--well, say
Jedediah, wouldn't it?"
"I guess it doesn't matter
what a person's name is as long
as he behaves himself," said
Marilla, feeling herself called
upon to inculcate a good and
useful moral.
"Well, I don't know." Anne
looked thoughtful. "I read in
a book once that a rose by any
other name would smell as sweet,
but I've never been able to believe
it. I don't believe a rose WOULD
be as nice if it was called a
thistle or a skunk cabbage. I
suppose my father could have
been a good man even if he had
been called Jedediah; but I'm
sure it would have been a cross.
Well, my mother was a teacher
in the High school, too, but
when she married father she gave
up teaching, of course. A husband
was enough responsibility. Mrs.
Thomas said that they were a
pair of babies and as poor as
church mice. They went to live
in a weeny-teeny little yellow
house in Bolingbroke. I've never
seen that house, but I've imagined
it thousands of times. I think
it must have had honeysuckle
over the parlor window and lilacs
in the front yard and lilies
of the valley just inside the
gate. Yes, and muslin curtains
in all the windows. Muslin curtains
give a house such an air. I was
born in that house. Mrs. Thomas
said I was the homeliest baby
she ever saw, I was so scrawny
and tiny and nothing but eyes,
but that mother thought I was
perfectly beautiful. I should
think a mother would be a better
judge than a poor woman who came
in to scrub, wouldn't you? I'm
glad she was satisfied with me
anyhow, I would feel so sad if
I thought I was a disappointment
to her--because she didn't live
very long after that, you see.
She died of fever when I was
just three months old. I do wish
she'd lived long enough for me
to remember calling her mother.
I think it would be so sweet
to say `mother,' don't you? And
father died four days afterwards
from fever too. That left me
an orphan and folks were at their
wits' end, so Mrs. Thomas said,
what to do with me. You see,
nobody wanted me even then. It
seems to be my fate. Father and
mother had both come from places
far away and it was well known
they hadn't any relatives living.
Finally Mrs. Thomas said she'd
take me, though she was poor
and had a drunken husband. She
brought me up by hand. Do you
know if there is anything in
being brought up by hand that
ought to make people who are
brought up that way better than
other people? Because whenever
I was naughty Mrs. Thomas would
ask me how I could be such a
bad girl when she had brought
me up by hand-- reproachful-like.
"Mr. and Mrs.
Thomas moved away from Bolingbroke
to Marysville,
and I lived with them until I
was eight years old. I helped
look after the Thomas children--there
were four of them younger than
me--and I can tell you they took
a lot of looking after. Then
Mr. Thomas was killed falling
under a train and his mother
offered to take Mrs. Thomas and
the children, but she didn't
want me. Mrs. Thomas was at HER
wits' end, so she said, what
to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond
from up the river came down and
said she'd take me, seeing I
was handy with children, and
I went up the river to live with
her in a little clearing among
the stumps. It was a very lonesome
place. I'm sure I could never
have lived there if I hadn't
had an imagination. Mr. Hammond
worked a little sawmill up there,
and Mrs. Hammond had eight children.
She had twins three times. I
like babies in moderation, but
twins three times in succession
is TOO MUCH. I told Mrs. Hammond
so firmly, when the last pair
came. I used to get so dreadfully
tired carrying them about.
"I lived up
river with Mrs. Hammond over
two years, and then
Mr. Hammond died and Mrs. Hammond
broke up housekeeping. She divided
her children among her relatives
and went to the States. I had
to go to the asylum at Hopeton,
because nobody would take me.
They didn't want me at the asylum,
either; they said they were over-
crowded as it was. But they had
to take me and I was there four
months until Mrs. Spencer came."
Anne finished up with another
sigh, of relief this time. Evidently
she did not like talking about
her experiences in a world that
had not wanted her.
"Did you ever go to school?" demanded
Marilla, turning the sorrel mare
down the shore road.
"Not a great
deal. I went a little the last
year I stayed
with Mrs. Thomas. When I went
up river we were so far from
a school that I couldn't walk
it in winter and there was a
vacation in summer, so I could
only go in the spring and fall.
But of course I went while I
was at the asylum. I can read
pretty well and I know ever so
many pieces of poetry off by
heart--`The Battle of Hohenlinden'
and `Edinburgh after Flodden,'
and `Bingen of the Rhine,' and
lost of the `Lady of the Lake'
and most of `The Seasons' by
James Thompson. Don't you just
love poetry that gives you a
crinkly feeling up and down your
back? There is a piece in the
Fifth Reader--`The Downfall of
Poland'--that is just full of
thrills. Of course, I wasn't
in the Fifth Reader--I was only
in the Fourth--but the big girls
used to lend me theirs to read."
"Were those women--Mrs. Thomas
and Mrs. Hammond--good to you?" asked
Marilla, looking at Anne out
of the corner of her eye.
"O-o-o-h," faltered Anne. Her
sensitive little face suddenly
flushed scarlet and embarrassment
sat on her brow. "Oh, they MEANT
to be--I know they meant to be
just as good and kind as possible.
And when people mean to be good
to you, you don't mind very much
when they're not quite--always.
They had a good deal to worry
them, you know. It's very trying
to have a drunken husband, you
see; and it must be very trying
to have twins three times in
succession, don't you think?
But I feel sure they meant to
be good to me."
Marilla asked no more questions.
Anne gave herself up to a silent
rapture over the shore road and
Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly
while she pondered deeply. Pity
was suddenly stirring in her
heart for the child. What a starved,
unloved life she had had--a life
of drudgery and poverty and neglect;
for Marilla was shrewd enough
to read between the lines of
Anne's history and divine the
truth. No wonder she had been
so delighted at the prospect
of a real home. It was a pity
she had to be sent back. What
if she, Marilla, should indulge
Matthew's unaccountable whim
and let her stay? He was set
on it; and the child seemed a
nice, teachable little thing.
"She's got too much to say," thought
Marilla, "but she might be trained
out of that. And there's nothing
rude or slangy in what she does
say. She's ladylike. It's likely
her people were nice folks."
The shore road
was "woodsy
and wild and lonesome." On the
right hand, scrub firs, their
spirits quite unbroken by long
years of tussle with the gulf
winds, grew thickly. On the left
were the steep red sandstone
cliffs, so near the track in
places that a mare of less steadiness
than the sorrel might have tried
the nerves of the people behind
her. Down at the base of the
cliffs were heaps of surf-worn
rocks or little sandy coves inlaid
with pebbles as with ocean jewels;
beyond lay the sea, shimmering
and blue, and over it soared
the gulls, their pinions flashing
silvery in the sunlight.
"Isn't the sea wonderful?" said
Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed
silence. "Once, when I lived
in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired
an express wagon and took us
all to spend the day at the shore
ten miles away. I enjoyed every
moment of that day, even if I
had to look after the children
all the time. I lived it over
in happy dreams for years. But
this shore is nicer than the
Marysville shore. Aren't those
gulls splendid? Would you like
to be a gull? I think I would--that
is, if I couldn't be a human
girl. Don't you think it would
be nice to wake up at sunrise
and swoop down over the water
and away out over that lovely
blue all day; and then at night
to fly back to one's nest? Oh,
I can just imagine myself doing
it. What big house is that just
ahead, please?"
"That's the
White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke
runs it, but the season
hasn't begun yet. There are heaps
of Americans come there for the
summer. They think this shore
is just about right."
"I was afraid it might be Mrs.
Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I
don't want to get there. Somehow,
it will seem like the end of
everything."
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