Spring had come once more to
Green Gables--the beautiful capricious,
reluctant Canadian spring, lingering
along through April and May in
a succession of sweet, fresh,
chilly days, with pink sunsets
and miracles of resurrection
and growth. The maples in Lover's
Lane were red budded and little
curly ferns pushed up around
the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in
the barrens, behind Mr. Silas
Sloane's place, the Mayflowers
blossomed out, pink and white
stars of sweetness under their
brown leaves. All the school
girls and boys had one golden
afternoon gathering them, coming
home in the clear, echoing twilight
with arms and baskets full of
flowery spoil.
"I'm so sorry for people who
live in lands where there are
no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana
says perhaps they have something
better, but there couldn't be
anything better than Mayflowers,
could there, Marilla? And Diana
says if they don't know what
they are like they don't miss
them. But I think that is the
saddest thing of all. I think
it would be TRAGIC, Marilla,
not to know what Mayflowers are
like and NOT to miss them. Do
you know what I think Mayflowers
are, Marilla? I think they must
be the souls of the flowers that
died last summer and this is
their heaven. But we had a splendid
time today, Marilla. We had our
lunch down in a big mossy hollow
by an old well--such a ROMANTIC
spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty
Gillis to jump over it, and Arty
did because he wouldn't take
a dare. Nobody would in school.
It is very FASHIONABLE to dare.
Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers
he found to Prissy Andrews and
I heard him to say `sweets to
the sweet.' He got that out of
a book, I know; but it shows
he has some imagination. I was
offered some Mayflowers too,
but I rejected them with scorn.
I can't tell you the person's
name because I have vowed never
to let it cross my lips. We made
wreaths of the Mayflowers and
put them on our hats; and when
the time came to go home we marched
in procession down the road,
two by two, with our bouquets
and wreaths, singing `My Home
on the Hill.' Oh, it was so thrilling,
Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane's
folks rushed out to see us and
everybody we met on the road
stopped and stared after us.
We made a real sensation."
"Not much wonder! Such silly
doings!" was Marilla's response.
After the Mayflowers came the
violets, and Violet Vale was
empurpled with them. Anne walked
through it on her way to school
with reverent steps and worshiping
eyes, as if she trod on holy
ground.
"Somehow," she told Diana, "when
I'm going through here I don't
really care whether Gil--whether
anybody gets ahead of me in class
or not. But when I'm up in school
it's all different and I care
as much as ever. There's such
a lot of different Annes in me.
I sometimes think that is why
I'm such a troublesome person.
If I was just the one Anne it
would be ever so much more comfortable,
but then it wouldn't be half
so interesting."
One June evening, when the
orchards were pink blossomed
again, when the frogs were singing
silverly sweet in the marshes
about the head of the Lake of
Shining Waters, and the air was
full of the savor of clover fields
and balsamic fir woods, Anne
was sitting by her gable window.
She had been studying her lessons,
but it had grown too dark to
see the book, so she had fallen
into wide-eyed reverie, looking
out past the boughs of the Snow
Queen, once more bestarred with
its tufts of blossom.
In all essential
respects the little gable chamber
was unchanged.
The walls were as white, the
pincushion as hard, the chairs
as stiffly and yellowly upright
as ever. Yet the whole character
of the room was altered. It was
full of a new vital, pulsing
personality that seemed to pervade
it and to be quite independent
of schoolgirl books and dresses
and ribbons, and even of the
cracked blue jug full of apple
blossoms on the table. It was
as if all the dreams, sleeping
and waking, of its vivid occupant
had taken a visible although
unmaterial form and had tapestried
the bare room with splendid filmy
tissues of rainbow and moonshine.
Presently Marilla came briskly
in with some of Anne's freshly
ironed school aprons. She hung
them over a chair and sat down
with a short sigh. She had had
one of her headaches that afternoon,
and although the pain had gone
she felt weak and "tuckered out," as
she expressed it. Anne looked
at her with eyes limpid with
sympathy.
"I do truly
wish I could have had the headache
in your place,
Marilla. I would have endured
it joyfully for your sake."
"I guess you did your part
in attending to the work and
letting me rest," said Marilla. "You
seem to have got on fairly well
and made fewer mistakes than
usual. Of course it wasn't exactly
necessary to starch Matthew's
handkerchiefs! And most people
when they put a pie in the oven
to warm up for dinner take it
out and eat it when it gets hot
instead of leaving it to be burned
to a crisp. But that doesn't
seem to be your way evidently."
Headaches always left Marilla
somewhat sarcastic.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne
penitently. "I never thought
about that pie from the moment
I put it in the oven till now,
although I felt INSTINCTIVELY
that there was something missing
on the dinner table. I was firmly
resolved, when you left me in
charge this morning, not to imagine
anything, but keep my thoughts
on facts. I did pretty well until
I put the pie in, and then an
irresistible temptation came
to me to imagine I was an enchanted
princess shut up in a lonely
tower with a handsome knight
riding to my rescue on a coal-black
steed. So that is how I came
to forget the pie. I didn't know
I starched the handkerchiefs.
All the time I was ironing I
was trying to think of a name
for a new island Diana and I
have discovered up the brook.
It's the most ravishing spot,
Marilla. There are two maple
trees on it and the brook flows
right around it. At last it struck
me that it would be splendid
to call it Victoria Island because
we found it on the Queen's birthday.
Both Diana and I are very loyal.
But I'm sorry about that pie
and the handkerchiefs. I wanted
to be extra good today because
it's an anniversary. Do you remember
what happened this day last year,
Marilla?"
"No, I can't
think of anything special."
"Oh, Marilla,
it was the day I came to Green
Gables. I shall
never forget it. It was the turning
point in my life. Of course it
wouldn't seem so important to
you. I've been here for a year
and I've been so happy. Of course,
I've had my troubles, but one
can live down troubles. Are you
sorry you kept me, Marilla?"
"No, I can't say I'm sorry," said
Marilla, who sometimes wondered
how she could have lived before
Anne came to Green Gables, "no,
not exactly sorry. If you've
finished your lessons, Anne,
I want you to run over and ask
Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me
Diana's apron pattern."
"Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried
Anne.
"Too dark?
Why, it's only twilight. And
goodness knows you've gone
over often enough after dark."
"I'll go over early in the
morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll
get up at sunrise and go over,
Marilla."
"What has got
into your head now, Anne Shirley?
I want that
pattern to cut out your new apron
this evening. Go at once and
be smart too."
"I'll have to go around by
the road, then," said Anne, taking
up her hat reluctantly.
"Go by the
road and waste half an hour!
I'd like to catch you!"
"I can't go through the Haunted
Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately.
Marilla stared.
"The Haunted
Wood! Are you crazy? What under
the canopy
is the Haunted Wood?"
"The spruce wood over the brook," said
Anne in a whisper.
"Fiddlesticks!
There is no such thing as a
haunted wood
anywhere. Who has been telling
you such stuff?"
"Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana
and I just imagined the wood
was haunted. All the places around
here are so--so--COMMONPLACE.
We just got this up for our own
amusement. We began it in April.
A haunted wood is so very romantic,
Marilla. We chose the spruce
grove because it's so gloomy.
Oh, we have imagined the most
harrowing things. There's a white
lady walks along the brook just
about this time of the night
and wrings her hands and utters
wailing cries. She appears when
there is to be a death in the
family. And the ghost of a little
murdered child haunts the corner
up by Idlewild; it creeps up
behind you and lays its cold
fingers on your hand--so. Oh,
Marilla, it gives me a shudder
to think of it. And there's a
headless man stalks up and down
the path and skeletons glower
at you between the boughs. Oh,
Marilla, I wouldn't go through
the Haunted Wood after dark now
for anything. I'd be sure that
white things would reach out
from behind the trees and grab
me."
"Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated
Marilla, who had listened in
dumb amazement. "Anne Shirley,
do you mean to tell me you believe
all that wicked nonsense of your
own imagination?"
"Not believe EXACTLY," faltered
Anne. "At least, I don't believe
it in daylight. But after dark,
Marilla, it's different. That
is when ghosts walk."
"There are
no such things as ghosts, Anne."
"Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried
Anne eagerly. "I know people
who have seen them. And they
are respectable people. Charlie
Sloane says that his grandmother
saw his grandfather driving home
the cows one night after he'd
been buried for a year. You know
Charlie Sloane's grandmother
wouldn't tell a story for anything.
She's a very religious woman.
And Mrs. Thomas's father was
pursued home one night by a lamb
of fire with its head cut off
hanging by a strip of skin. He
said he knew it was the spirit
of his brother and that it was
a warning he would die within
nine days. He didn't, but he
died two years after, so you
see it was really true. And Ruby
Gillis says--"
"Anne Shirley," interrupted
Marilla firmly, "I never want
to hear you talking in this fashion
again. I've had my doubts about
that imagination of yours right
along, and if this is going to
be the outcome of it, I won't
countenance any such doings.
You'll go right over to Barry's,
and you'll go through that spruce
grove, just for a lesson and
a warning to you. And never let
me hear a word out of your head
about haunted woods again."
Anne might plead and cry as
she liked--and did, for her terror
was very real. Her imagination
had run away with her and she
held the spruce grove in mortal
dread after nightfall. But Marilla
was inexorable. She marched the
shrinking ghostseer down to the
spring and ordered her to proceed
straightaway over the bridge
and into the dusky retreats of
wailing ladies and headless specters
beyond.
"Oh, Marilla, how can you be
so cruel?" sobbed Anne. "What
would you feel like if a white
thing did snatch me up and carry
me off?"
"I'll risk it," said Marilla
unfeelingly. "You know I always
mean what I say. I'll cure you
of imagining ghosts into places.
March, now."
Anne marched. That is, she
stumbled over the bridge and
went shuddering up the horrible
dim path beyond. Anne never forgot
that walk. Bitterly did she repent
the license she had given to
her imagination. The goblins
of her fancy lurked in every
shadow about her, reaching out
their cold, fleshless hands to
grasp the terrified small girl
who had called them into being.
A white strip of birch bark blowing
up from the hollow over the brown
floor of the grove made her heart
stand still. The long-drawn wail
of two old boughs rubbing against
each other brought out the perspiration
in beads on her forehead. The
swoop of bats in the darkness
over her was as the wings of
unearthly creatures. When she
reached Mr. William Bell's field
she fled across it as if pursued
by an army of white things, and
arrived at the Barry kitchen
door so out of breath that she
could hardly gasp out her request
for the apron pattern. Diana
was away so that she had no excuse
to linger. The dreadful return
journey had to be faced. Anne
went back over it with shut eyes,
preferring to take the risk of
dashing her brains out among
the boughs to that of seeing
a white thing. When she finally
stumbled over the log bridge
she drew one long shivering breath
of relief.
"Well, so nothing caught you?" said
Marilla unsympathetically.
"Oh, Mar--Marilla," chattered
Anne, "I'll b-b-be contt-tented
with c-c-commonplace places after
this."
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