When Marilla took Anne up to
bed that night she said stiffly:
"Now, Anne,
I noticed last night that you
threw your clothes
all about the floor when you
took them off. That is a very
untidy habit, and I can't allow
it at all. As soon as you take
off any article of clothing fold
it neatly and place it on the
chair. I haven't any use at all
for little girls who aren't neat."
"I was so harrowed up in my
mind last night that I didn't
think about my clothes at all," said
Anne. "I'll fold them nicely
tonight. They always made us
do that at the asylum. Half the
time, though, I'd forget, I'd
be in such a hurry to get into
bed nice and quiet and imagine
things."
"You'll have to remember a
little better if you stay here," admonished
Marilla. "There, that looks something
like. Say your prayers now and
get into bed."
"I never say any prayers," announced
Anne.
Marilla looked horrified astonishment.
"Why, Anne,
what do you mean? Were you
never taught to say
your prayers? God always wants
little girls to say their prayers.
Don't you know who God is, Anne?"
"`God is a spirit, infinite,
eternal and unchangeable, in
His being, wisdom, power, holiness,
justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded
Anne promptly and glibly.
Marilla looked rather relieved.
"So you do
know something then, thank
goodness! You're not quite
a heathen. Where did you learn
that?"
"Oh, at the
asylum Sunday-school. They
made us learn the whole
catechism. I liked it pretty
well. There's something splendid
about some of the words. `Infinite,
eternal and unchangeable.' Isn't
that grand? It has such a roll
to it--just like a big organ
playing. You couldn't quite call
it poetry, I suppose, but it
sounds a lot like it, doesn't
it?"
"We're not
talking about poetry, Anne--we
are talking about saying
your prayers. Don't you know
it's a terrible wicked thing
not to say your prayers every
night? I'm afraid you are a very
bad little girl."
"You'd find it easier to be
bad than good if you had red
hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People
who haven't red hair don't know
what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas
told me that God made my hair
red ON PURPOSE, and I've never
cared about Him since. And anyhow
I'd always be too tired at night
to bother saying prayers. People
who have to look after twins
can't be expected to say their
prayers. Now, do you honestly
think they can?"
Marilla decided that Anne's
religious training must be begun
at once. Plainly there was no
time to be lost.
"You must say
your prayers while you are
under my roof,
Anne."
"Why, of course, if you want
me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd
do anything to oblige you. But
you'll have to tell me what to
say for this once. After I get
into bed I'll imagine out a real
nice prayer to say always. I
believe that it will be quite
interesting, now that I come
to think of it."
"You must kneel down," said
Marilla in embarrassment.
Anne knelt at Marilla's knee
and looked up gravely.
"Why must people kneel down
to pray?" If I really wanted
to pray I'll tell you what I'd
do. I'd go out into a great big
field all alone or into the deep,
deep, woods, and I'd look up
into the sky--up--up--up--into
that lovely blue sky that looks
as if there was no end to its
blueness. And then I'd just FEEL
a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What
am I to say?"
Marilla felt
more embarrassed than ever.
She had intended to
teach Anne the childish classic, "Now
I lay me down to sleep." But
she had, as I have told you,
the glimmerings of a sense of
humor--which is simply another
name for a sense of fitness of
things; and it suddenly occurred
to her that that simple little
prayer, sacred to white-robed
childhood lisping at motherly
knees, was entirely unsuited
to this freckled witch of a girl
who knew and cared nothing bout
God's love, since she had never
had it translated to her through
the medium of human love.
"You're old enough to pray
for yourself, Anne," she said
finally. "Just thank God for
your blessings and ask Him humbly
for the things you want."
"Well, I'll do my best," promised
Anne, burying her face in Marilla's
lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's
the way the ministers say it
in church, so I suppose it's
all right in private prayer,
isn't it?" she interjected, lifting
her head for a moment.
"Gracious heavenly Father,
I thank Thee for the White Way
of Delight and the Lake of Shining
Waters and Bonny and the Snow
Queen. I'm really extremely grateful
for them. And that's all the
blessings I can think of just
now to thank Thee for. As for
the things I want, they're so
numerous that it would take a
great deal of time to name them
all so I will only mention the
two most important. Please let
me stay at Green Gables; and
please let me be good-looking
when I grow up. I remain, "Yours
respectfully, Anne Shirley.
"There, did I do all right?" she
asked eagerly, getting up. "I
could have made it much more
flowery if I'd had a little more
time to think it over."
Poor Marilla was only preserved
from complete collapse by remembering
that it was not irreverence,
but simply spiritual ignorance
on the part of Anne that was
responsible for this extraordinary
petition. She tucked the child
up in bed, mentally vowing that
she should be taught a prayer
the very next day, and was leaving
the room with the light when
Anne called her back.
"I've just
thought of it now. I should
have said, `Amen' in
place of `yours respectfully,'
shouldn't I?--the way the ministers
do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt
a prayer should be finished off
in some way, so I put in the
other. Do you suppose it will
make any difference?"
"I--I don't suppose it will," said
Marilla. "Go to sleep now like
a good child. Good night."
"I can only say good night
tonight with a clear conscience," said
Anne, cuddling luxuriously down
among her pillows.
Marilla retreated to the kitchen,
set the candle firmly on the
table, and glared at Matthew.
"Matthew Cuthbert,
it's about time somebody adopted
that child
and taught her something. She's
next door to a perfect heathen.
Will you believe that she never
said a prayer in her life till
tonight? I'll send her to the
manse tomorrow and borrow the
Peep of the Day series, that's
what I'll do. And she shall go
to Sunday-school just as soon
as I can get some suitable clothes
made for her. I foresee that
I shall have my hands full. Well,
well, we can't get through this
world without our share of trouble.
I've had a pretty easy life of
it so far, but my time has come
at last and I suppose I'll just
have to make the best of it."
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