A tall, slim girl, "half-past sixteen," with serious gray eyes
and hair which her friends called auburn, had sat down on the broad
red sandstone doorstep of a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripe
afternoon in August, firmly resolved to construe so many lines of
Virgil.
But an August afternoon, with blue hazes scarfing the harvest
slopes, little winds whispering elfishly in the poplars, and a
dancing slendor of red poppies outflaming against the dark coppice
of young firs in a corner of the cherry orchard, was fitter for
dreams than dead languages. The Virgil soon slipped unheeded to the
ground, and Anne, her chin propped on her clasped hands, and her
eyes on the splendid mass of fluffy clouds that were heaping up
just over Mr. J. A. Harrison's house like a great white mountain,
was far away in a delicious world where a certain schoolteacher was
doing a wonderful work, shaping the destinies of future statesmen,
and inspiring youthful minds and hearts with high and lofty
ambitions.
To be sure, if you came down to harsh facts … which, it
must be confessed, Anne seldom did until she had to … it did
not seem likely that there was much promising material for
celebrities in Avonlea school; but you could never tell what might
happen if a teacher used her influence for good. Anne had certain
rose-tinted ideals of what a teacher might accomplish if she only
went the right way about it; and she was in the midst of a
delightful scene, forty years hence, with a famous personage …
just exactly what he was to be famous for was left in convenient
haziness, but Anne thought it would be rather nice to have him a
college president or a Canadian premier … bowing low over her
wrinkled hand and assuring her that it was she who had first
kindled his ambition, and that all his success in life was due to
the lessons she had instilled so long ago in Avonlea school. This
pleasant vision was shattered by a most unpleasant
interruption.
A demure little Jersey cow came scuttling down the lane and five
seconds later Mr. Harrison arrived … if "arrived" be not too
mild a term to describe the manner of his irruption into the
yard.
He bounced over the fence without waiting to open the gate, and
angrily confronted astonished Anne, who had risen to her feet and
stood looking at him in some bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their
new righthand neighbor and she had never met him before, although
she had seen him once or twice.
In early April, before Anne had come home from Queen's, Mr.
Robert Bell, whose farm adjoined the Cuthbert place on the west,
had sold out and moved to Charlottetown. His farm had been bought
by a certain Mr. J. A. Harrison, whose name, and the fact that he
was a New Brunswick man, were all that was known about him. But
before he had been a month in Avonlea he had won the reputation of
being an odd person … "a crank," Mrs. Rachel Lynde said. Mrs.
Rachel was an outspoken lady, as those of you who may have already
made her acquaintance will remember. Mr. Harrison was certainly
different from other people … and that is the essential
characteristic of a crank, as everybody knows.
In the first place he kept house for himself and had publicly
stated that he wanted no fools of women around his diggings.
Feminine Avonlea took its revenge by the gruesome tales it related
about his house-keeping and cooking. He had hired little John Henry
Carter of White Sands and John Henry started the stories. For one
thing, there was never any stated time for meals in the Harrison
establishment. Mr. Harrison "got a bite" when he felt hungry, and
if John Henry were around at the time, he came in for a share, but
if he were not, he had to wait until Mr. Harrison's next hungry
spell. John Henry mournfully averred that he would have starved to
death if it wasn't that he got home on Sundays and got a good
filling up, and that his mother always gave him a basket of "grub"
to take back with him on Monday mornings.
As for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison never made any pretence of
doing it unless a rainy Sunday came. Then he went to work and
washed them all at once in the rainwater hogshead, and left them to
drain dry.
Again, Mr. Harrison was "close." When he was asked to subscribe
to the Rev. Mr. Allan's salary he said he'd wait and see how many
dollars' worth of good he got out of his preaching first … he
didn't believe in buying a pig in a poke. And when Mrs. Lynde went
to ask for a contribution to missions … and incidentally to
see the inside of the house … he told her there were more
heathens among the old woman gossips in Avonlea than anywhere else
he knew of, and he'd cheerfully contribute to a mission for
Christianizing them if she'd undertake it. Mrs. Rachel got herself
away and said it was a mercy poor Mrs. Robert Bell was safe in her
grave, for it would have broken her heart to see the state of her
house in which she used to take so much pride.
"Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor every second day," Mrs.
Lynde told Marilla Cuthbert indignantly, "and if you could see it
now! I had to hold up my skirts as I walked across it."
Finally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot called Ginger. Nobody in
Avonlea had ever kept a parrot before; consequently that proceeding
was considered barely respectable. And such a parrot! If you took
John Henry Carter's word for it, never was such an unholy bird. It
swore terribly. Mrs. Carter would have taken John Henry away at
once if she had been sure she could get another place for him.
Besides, Ginger had bitten a piece right out of the back of John
Henry's neck one day when he had stooped down too near the cage.
Mrs. Carter showed everybody the mark when the luckless John Henry
went home on Sundays.
All these things flashed through Anne's mind as Mr. Harrison
stood, quite speechless with wrath apparently, before her. In his
most amiable mood Mr. Harrison could not have been considered a
handsome man; he was short and fat and bald; and now, with his
round face purple with rage and his prominent blue eyes almost
sticking out of his head, Anne thought he was really the ugliest
person she had ever seen.
All at once Mr. Harrison found his voice.
"I'm not going to put up with this," he spluttered, "not a day
longer, do you hear, miss. Bless my soul, this is the third time,
miss … the third time! Patience has ceased to be a virtue,
miss. I warned your aunt the last time not to let it occur
again … and she's let it … she's done it … what does
she mean by it, that is what I want to know. That is what I'm here
about, miss."
"Will you explain what the trouble is?" asked Anne, in her most
dignified manner. She had been practicing it considerably of late
to have it in good working order when school began; but it had no
apparent effect on the irate J. A. Harrison.
"Trouble, is it? Bless my soul, trouble enough, I should think.
The trouble is, miss, that I found that Jersey cow of your aunt's
in my oats again, not half an hour ago. The third time, mark you. I
found her in last Tuesday and I found her in yesterday. I came here
and told your aunt not to let it occur again. She has let it occur
again. Where's your aunt, miss? I just want to see her for a minute
and give her a piece of my mind … a piece of J. A. Harrison's
mind, miss."
"If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not my aunt, and she
has gone down to East Grafton to see a distant relative of hers who
is very ill," said Anne, with due increase of dignity at every
word. "I am very sorry that my cow should have broken into your
oats … she is my cow and not Miss Cuthbert's … Matthew
gave her to me three years ago when she was a little calf and he
bought her from Mr. Bell."
"Sorry, miss! Sorry isn't going to help matters any. You'd
better go and look at the havoc that animal has made in my
oats … trampled them from center to circumference, miss."
"I am very sorry," repeated Anne firmly, "but perhaps if you
kept your fences in better repair Dolly might not have broken in.
It is your part of the line fence that separates your oatfield from
our pasture and I noticed the other day that it was not in very
good condition."
"My fence is all right," snapped Mr. Harrison, angrier than ever
at this carrying of the war into the enemy's country. "The jail
fence couldn't keep a demon of a cow like that out. And I can tell
you, you redheaded snippet, that if the cow is yours, as you say,
you'd be better employed in watching her out of other people's
grain than in sitting round reading yellow-covered novels," …
with a scathing glance at the innocent tan-colored Virgil by Anne's
feet.
Something at that moment was red besides Anne's hair …
which had always been a tender point with her.
"I'd rather have red hair than none at all, except a little
fringe round my ears," she flashed.
The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very sensitive about
his bald head. His anger choked him up again and he could only
glare speechlessly at Anne, who recovered her temper and followed
up her advantage.
"I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, because I have an
imagination. I can easily imagine how very trying it must be to
find a cow in your oats and I shall not cherish any hard feelings
against you for the things you've said. I promise you that Dolly
shall never break into your oats again. I give you my word of honor
on THAT point."
"Well, mind you she doesn't," muttered Mr. Harrison in a
somewhat subdued tone; but he stamped off angrily enough and Anne
heard him growling to himself until he was out of earshot.
Grievously disturbed in mind, Anne marched across the yard and
shut the naughty Jersey up in the milking pen.
"She can't possibly get out of that unless she tears the fence
down," she reflected. "She looks pretty quiet now. I daresay she
has sickened herself on those oats. I wish I'd sold her to Mr.
Shearer when he wanted her last week, but I thought it was just as
well to wait until we had the auction of the stock and let them all
go together. I believe it is true about Mr. Harrison being a crank.
Certainly there's nothing of the kindred spirit about HIM."
Anne had always a weather eye open for kindred spirits.
Marilla Cuthbert was driving into the yard as Anne returned from
the house, and the latter flew to get tea ready. They discussed the
matter at the tea table.
"I'll be glad when the auction is over," said Marilla. "It is
too much responsibility having so much stock about the place and
nobody but that unreliable Martin to look after them. He has never
come back yet and he promised that he would certainly be back last
night if I'd give him the day off to go to his aunt's funeral. I
don't know how many aunts he has got, I am sure. That's the fourth
that's died since he hired here a year ago. I'll be more than
thankful when the crop is in and Mr. Barry takes over the farm.
We'll have to keep Dolly shut up in the pen till Martin comes, for
she must be put in the back pasture and the fences there have to be
fixed. I declare, it is a world of trouble, as Rachel says. Here's
poor Mary Keith dying and what is to become of those two children
of hers is more than I know. She has a brother in British Columbia
and she has written to him about them, but she hasn't heard from
him yet."
"What are the children like? How old are they?"
"Six past … they're twins."
"Oh, I've always been especially interested in twins ever since
Mrs. Hammond had so many," said Anne eagerly. "Are they
pretty?"
"Goodness, you couldn't tell … they were too dirty. Davy
had been out making mud pies and Dora went out to call him in. Davy
pushed her headfirst into the biggest pie and then, because she
cried, he got into it himself and wallowed in it to show her it was
nothing to cry about. Mary said Dora was really a very good child
but that Davy was full of mischief. He has never had any bringing
up you might say. His father died when he was a baby and Mary has
been sick almost ever since."
"I'm always sorry for children that have no bringing up," said
Anne soberly. "You know I hadn't any till you took me in
hand. I hope their uncle will look after them. Just what relation
is Mrs. Keith to you?"
"Mary? None in the world. It was her husband … he was our
third cousin. There's Mrs. Lynde coming through the yard. I thought
she'd be up to hear about Mary."
"Don't tell her about Mr. Harrison and the cow," implored
Anne.
Marilla promised; but the promise was quite unnecessary, for
Mrs. Lynde was no sooner fairly seated than she said,
"I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your Jersey out of his oats today
when I was coming home from Carmody. I thought he looked pretty
mad. Did he make much of a rumpus?"
Anne and Marilla furtively exchanged amused smiles. Few things
in Avonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning Anne
had said,
"If you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door,
pulled down the blind, and SNEEZED, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the
next day how your cold was!"
"I believe he did," admitted Marilla. "I was away. He gave Anne
a piece of his mind."
"I think he is a very disagreeable man," said Anne, with a
resentful toss of her ruddy head.
"You never said a truer word," said Mrs. Rachel solemnly. "I
knew there'd be trouble when Robert Bell sold his place to a New
Brunswick man, that's what. I don't know what Avonlea is coming to,
with so many strange people rushing into it. It'll soon not be safe
to go to sleep in our beds."
"Why, what other strangers are coming in?" asked Marilla.
"Haven't you heard? Well, there's a family of Donnells, for one
thing. They've rented Peter Sloane's old house. Peter has hired the
man to run his mill. They belong down east and nobody knows
anything about them. Then that shiftless Timothy Cotton family are
going to move up from White Sands and they'll simply be a burden on
the public. He is in consumption … when he isn't
stealing … and his wife is a slack-twisted creature that can't
turn her hand to a thing. She washes her dishes SITTING DOWN. Mrs.
George Pye has taken her husband's orphan nephew, Anthony Pye.
He'll be going to school to you, Anne, so you may expect trouble,
that's what. And you'll have another strange pupil, too. Paul
Irving is coming from the States to live with his grandmother. You
remember his father, Marilla … Stephen Irving, him that jilted
Lavendar Lewis over at Grafton?"
"I don't think he jilted her. There was a quarrel … I
suppose there was blame on both sides."
"Well, anyway, he didn't marry her, and she's been as queer as
possible ever since, they say … living all by herself in that
little stone house she calls Echo Lodge. Stephen went off to the
States and went into business with his uncle and married a Yankee.
He's never been home since, though his mother has been up to see
him once or twice. His wife died two years ago and he's sending the
boy home to his mother for a spell. He's ten years old and I don't
know if he'll be a very desirable pupil. You can never tell about
those Yankees."
Mrs Lynde looked upon all people who had the misfortune to be
born or brought up elsewhere than in Prince Edward Island with a
decided can-any-good-thing-come-out-of-Nazareth air. They MIGHT be
good people, of course; but you were on the safe side in doubting
it. She had a special prejudice against "Yankees." Her husband had
been cheated out of ten dollars by an employer for whom he had once
worked in Boston and neither angels nor principalities nor powers
could have convinced Mrs. Rachel that the whole United States was
not responsible for it.
"Avonlea school won't be the worse for a little new blood," said
Marilla drily, "and if this boy is anything like his father he'll
be all right. Steve Irving was the nicest boy that was ever raised
in these parts, though some people did call him proud. I should
think Mrs. Irving would be very glad to have the child. She has
been very lonesome since her husband died."
"Oh, the boy may be well enough, but he'll be different from
Avonlea children," said Mrs. Rachel, as if that clinched the
matter. Mrs. Rachel's opinions concerning any person, place, or
thing, were always warranted to wear. "What's this I hear about
your going to start up a Village Improvement Society, Anne?"
"I was just talking it over with some of the girls and boys at
the last Debating Club," said Anne, flushing. "They thought it
would be rather nice … and so do Mr. and Mrs. Allan. Lots of
villages have them now."
"Well, you'll get into no end of hot water if you do. Better
leave it alone, Anne, that's what. People don't like being
improved."
"Oh, we are not going to try to improve the PEOPLE. It is
Avonlea itself. There are lots of things which might be done to
make it prettier. For instance, if we could coax Mr. Levi Boulter
to pull down that dreadful old house on his upper farm wouldn't
that be an improvement?"
"It certainly would," admitted Mrs. Rachel. "That old ruin has
been an eyesore to the settlement for years. But if you Improvers
can coax Levi Boulter to do anything for the public that he isn't
to be paid for doing, may I be there to see and hear the process,
that's what. I don't want to discourage you, Anne, for there may be
something in your idea, though I suppose you did get it out of some
rubbishy Yankee magazine; but you'll have your hands full with your
school and I advise you as a friend not to bother with your
improvements, that's what. But there, I know you'll go ahead with
it if you've set your mind on it. You were always one to carry a
thing through somehow."
Something about the firm outlines of Anne's lips told that Mrs.
Rachel was not far astray in this estimate. Anne's heart was bent
on forming the Improvement Society. Gilbert Blythe, who was to
teach in White Sands but would always be home from Friday night to
Monday morning, was enthusiastic about it; and most of the other
folks were willing to go in for anything that meant occasional
meetings and consequently some "fun." As for what the
"improvements" were to be, nobody had any very clear idea except
Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them over and planned them out
until an ideal Avonlea existed in their minds, if nowhere else.
Mrs. Rachel had still another item of news.
"They've given the Carmody school to a Priscilla Grant. Didn't
you go to Queen's with a girl of that name, Anne?"
"Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody! How perfectly
lovely!" exclaimed Anne, her gray eyes lighting up until they
looked like evening stars, causing Mrs. Lynde to wonder anew if she
would ever get it settled to her satisfaction whether Anne Shirley
were really a pretty girl or not.