Anne of Avonlea
Mary Joe say, ‘Dat Paul, he is de queeres’ leetle boy. He talks dat
queer. I tink dere’s someting wrong in his upper story.’ I couldn’t
sleep last night for ever so long, thinking of it, and wondering if
Mary Joe was right. I couldn’t bear to ask Grandma about it somehow,
but I made up my mind I’d ask you. I’m so glad you think I’m all right
in my upper story.”
“Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you are
never to worry about anything she says,” said Anne indignantly,
secretly resolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the
advisability of restraining Mary Joe’s tongue.
“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” said Paul. “I’m perfectly happy
now, teacher, thanks to you. It wouldn’t be nice to have something
wrong in your upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason Mary
Joe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about things
sometimes.”
“It _is_ a rather dangerous practice,” admitted Anne, out of the depths
of her own experience.
“Well, by and by I’ll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you can
see for yourself if there’s anything queer in them,” said Paul, “but
I’ll wait till it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tell
people things, and when nobody else is handy I just _have_ to tell Mary
Joe. But after this I won’t, if it makes her imagine I’m wrong in my
upper story. I’ll just ache and bear it.”
“And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tell
me your thoughts,” suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endeared
her to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously.
“Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won’t be there when I go because he makes
faces at me. I don’t mind _very_ much because he is such a little boy
and I am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have faces
made at you. And Davy makes such terrible ones. Sometimes I am
frightened he will never get his face straightened out again. He makes
them at me in church when I ought to be thinking of sacred things. Dora
likes me though, and I like her, but not so well as I did before she
told Minnie May Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up. I may
marry somebody when I grow up but I’m far too young to be thinking of
it yet, don’t you think, teacher?”
“Rather young,” agreed teacher.
“Speaking of marrying, reminds me of another thing that has been
troubling me of late,” continued Paul. “Mrs. Lynde was down here one
day last week having tea with Grandma, and Grandma made me show her my
little mother’s picture . . . the one father sent me for my birthday
present. I didn’t exactly want to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs. Lynde is
a good, kind woman, but she isn’t the sort of person you want to show
your mother’s picture to. _You_ know, teacher. But of course I obeyed
Grandma. Mrs. Lynde said she was very pretty but kind of actressy
looking, and must have been an awful lot younger than father. Then she
said, ‘Some of these days your pa will be marrying again likely. How
will you like to have a new ma, Master Paul?’ Well, the idea almost
took my breath away, teacher, but I wasn’t going to let Mrs. Lynde see
_that_. I just looked her straight in the face . . . like this . . .
and I said, ‘Mrs. Lynde, father made a pretty good job of picking out
my first mother and I could trust him to pick out just as good a one
the second time.’ And I _can_ trust him, teacher. But still, I hope, if
he ever does give me a new mother, he’ll ask my opinion about her
before it’s too late. There’s Mary Joe coming to call us to tea. I’ll
go and consult with her about the shortbread.”
As a result of the “consultation,” Mary Joe cut the shortbread and
added a dish of preserves to the bill of fare. Anne poured the tea and
she and Paul had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room whose
windows were open to the gulf breezes, and they talked so much
“nonsense” that Mary Joe was quite scandalized and told Veronica the
next evening that “de school mees” was as queer as Paul. After tea Paul
took Anne up to his room to show her his mother’s picture, which had
been the mysterious birthday present kept by Mrs. Irving in the
bookcase. Paul’s little low-ceilinged room was a soft whirl of ruddy
light from the sun that was setting over the sea and swinging shadows
from the fir trees that grew close to the square, deep-set window. From
out this soft glow and glamor shone a sweet, girlish face, with tender
mother eyes, that was hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed.
“That’s my little mother,” said Paul with loving pride. “I got Grandma
to hang it there where I’d see it as soon as I opened my eyes in the
morning. I never mind not having the light when I go to bed now,
because it just seems as if my little mother was right here with me.
Father knew just what I would like for a birthday present, although he
never asked me. Isn’t it wonderful how much fathers _do_ know?”
“Your mother was very lovely, Paul, and you look a little like her. But
her eyes and hair are darker than yours.”
“My eyes are the same color as father’s,” said Paul, flying about the
room to heap all available cushions on the window seat, “but father’s
hair is gray. He has lots of it, but it is gray. You see, father is
nearly fifty. That’s ripe old age, isn’t it? But it’s only _outside_
he’s old. _Inside_ he’s just as young as anybody. Now, teacher, please
sit here; and I’ll sit at your feet. May I lay my head against your
knee? That’s the way my little mother and I used to sit. Oh, this is
real splendid, I think.”
“Now, I want to hear those thoughts which Mary Joe pronounces so
queer,” said Anne, patting the mop of curls at her side. Paul never
needed any coaxing to tell his thoughts . . . at least, to congenial
souls.
“I thought them out in the fir grove one night,” he said dreamily. “Of
course I didn’t _believe_ them but I _thought_ them. _You_ know,
teacher. And then I wanted to tell them to somebody and there was
nobody but Mary Joe. Mary Joe was in the pantry setting bread and I sat
down on the bench beside her and I said, ‘Mary Joe, do you know what I
think? I think the evening star is a lighthouse on the land where the
fairies dwell.’ And Mary Joe said, ‘Well, yous are de queer one. Dare
ain’t no such ting as fairies.’ I was very much provoked. Of course, I
knew there are no fairies; but that needn’t prevent my thinking there
is. _You_ know, teacher. But I tried again quite patiently. I said,
‘Well then, Mary Joe, do you know what I think? I think an angel walks
over the world after the sun sets . . . a great, tall, white angel,
with silvery folded wings . . . and sings the flowers and birds to
sleep. Children can hear him if they know how to listen.’ Then Mary Joe
held up her hands all over flour and said, ‘Well, yous are de queer
leetle boy. Yous make me feel scare.’ And she really did looked scared.
I went out then and whispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden.
There was a little birch tree in the garden and it died. Grandma says
the salt spray killed it; but I think the dryad belonging to it was a
foolish dryad who wandered away to see the world and got lost. And the
little tree was so lonely it died of a broken heart.”
“And when the poor, foolish little dryad gets tired of the world and
comes back to her tree _her_ heart will break,” said Anne.
“Yes; but if dryads are foolish they must take the consequences, just
as if they were real people,” said Paul gravely. “Do you know what I
think about the new moon, teacher? I think it is a little golden boat
full of dreams.”
“And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your
sleep.”
“Exactly, teacher. Oh, you _do_ know. And I think the violets are
little snips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes
for the stars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old
sunshine; and I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go
to heaven. Now, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those
thoughts?”
“No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange and
beautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who
couldn’t think anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a
hundred years, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul . . .
some day you are going to be a poet, I believe.”
When Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhood
waiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressed
him he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.
“Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers,” said Anne rebukingly.
“No, I didn’t forget,” said Davy defiantly, “but I ain’t going to say
my prayers any more. I’m going to give up trying to be good, ’cause no
matter how good I am you’d like Paul Irving better. So I might as well
be bad and have the fun of it.”
“I don’t like Paul Irving _better_,” said Anne seriously. “I like you
just as well, only in a different way.”
“But I want you to like me the same way,” pouted Davy.
“You can’t like different people the same way. You don’t like Dora and
me the same way, do you?”
Davy sat up and reflected.
“No . . . o . . . o,” he admitted at last, “I like Dora because she’s
my sister but I like you because you’re _you_.”
“And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy,” said
Anne gaily.
“Well, I kind of wish I’d said my prayers then,” said Davy, convinced
by this logic. “But it’s too much bother getting out now to say them.
I’ll say them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won’t that do as well?”
No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled out
and knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he
leaned back on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.
“Anne, I’m gooder than I used to be.”
“Yes, indeed you are, Davy,” said Anne, who never hesitated to give
credit where credit was due.
“I _know_ I’m gooder,” said Davy confidently, “and I’ll tell you how I
know it. Today Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for me
and one for Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilla
didn’t say which was mine. But I give the biggest piece to Dora. That
was good of me, wasn’t it?”
“Very good, and very manly, Davy.”
“Of course,” admitted Davy, “Dora wasn’t very hungry and she only et
half her slice and then she give the rest to me. But I didn’t know she
was going to do that when I give it to her, so I _was_ good, Anne.”
In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and saw
Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a
sudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how
manly he looked—the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear,
straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was
a very handsome lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her ideal
man. She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired
and their tastes seemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and
distinguished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a
melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing either melancholy or
inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matter
in friendship!
Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked
approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal
woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even
to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued
to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy
has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there was always
a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a
flower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy