Anne of Avonlea
into an adjoining room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and
otherwise conducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding
himself left alone, relapsed into sulky silence.
“Excuse me and go on,” said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. “My
brother the sailor never taught that bird any manners.”
“I went home and after tea I went out to the milking pen. Mr.
Harrison,” . . . Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her old
childish gesture, while her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr.
Harrison’s embarrassed face . . . “I found my cow still shut up in the
pen. It was _your_ cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer.”
“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank amazement at this
unlooked-for conclusion. “What a _very_ extraordinary thing!”
“Oh, it isn’t in the least extraordinary that I should be getting
myself and other people into scrapes,” said Anne mournfully. “I’m noted
for that. You might suppose I’d have grown out of it by this time . . .
I’ll be seventeen next March . . . but it seems that I haven’t. Mr.
Harrison, is it too much to hope that you’ll forgive me? I’m afraid
it’s too late to get your cow back, but here is the money for her . . .
or you can have mine in exchange if you’d rather. She’s a very good
cow. And I can’t express how sorry I am for it all.”
“Tut, tut,” said Mr. Harrison briskly, “don’t say another word about
it, miss. It’s of no consequence . . . no consequence whatever.
Accidents will happen. I’m too hasty myself sometimes, miss . . . far
too hasty. But I can’t help speaking out just what I think and folks
must take me as they find me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now .
. . but never mind, she wasn’t, so it’s all right. I think I’d rather
have your cow in exchange, since you want to be rid of her.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I’m so glad you are not vexed. I was
afraid you would be.”
“And I suppose you were scared to death to come here and tell me, after
the fuss I made yesterday, hey? But you mustn’t mind me, I’m a terrible
outspoken old fellow, that’s all . . . awful apt to tell the truth, no
matter if it is a bit plain.”
“So is Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne, before she could prevent herself.
“Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don’t you tell me I’m like that old gossip,” said Mr.
Harrison irritably. “I’m not . . . not a bit. What have you got in that
box?”
“A cake,” said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. Harrison’s unexpected
amiability her spirits soared upward feather-light. “I brought it over
for you . . . I thought perhaps you didn’t have cake very often.”
“I don’t, that’s a fact, and I’m mighty fond of it, too. I’m much
obliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it’s good all the way
through.”
“It is,” said Anne, gaily confident. “I have made cakes in my time that
were _not_, as Mrs. Allan could tell you, but this one is all right. I
made it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, miss, you must help me eat it. I’ll put the
kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea. How will that do?”
“Will you let me make the tea?” said Anne dubiously.
Mr. Harrison chuckled.
“I see you haven’t much confidence in my ability to make tea. You’re
wrong . . . I can brew up as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But
go ahead yourself. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there’s plenty
of clean dishes.”
Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot in
several waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the
stove and set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The
state of that pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr.
Harrison told her where to find the bread and butter and a can of
peaches. Anne adorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut
her eyes to the stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready and
Anne found herself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table,
pouring his tea for him, and chatting freely to him about her school
and friends and plans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her
senses.
Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring that the poor bird would
be lonesome; and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody and
everything, offered him a walnut. But Ginger’s feelings had been
grievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He sat
moodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like a
mere ball of green and gold.
“Why do you call him Ginger?” asked Anne, who liked appropriate names
and thought Ginger accorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage.
“My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to his
temper. I think a lot of that bird though . . . you’d be surprised if
you knew how much. He has his faults of course. That bird has cost me a
good deal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing
habits but he can’t be broken of them. I’ve tried . . . other people
have tried. Some folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly, ain’t
it? I like them myself. Ginger’s a lot of company to me. Nothing would
induce me to give that bird up . . . nothing in the world, miss.”
Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if he
suspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give Ginger
up. Anne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety
little man, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends.
Mr. Harrison found out about the Improvement Society and was disposed
to approve of it.
“That’s right. Go ahead. There’s lots of room for improvement in this
settlement . . . and in the people too.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” flashed Anne. To herself, or to her particular
cronies, she might admit that there were some small imperfections,
easily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear a
practical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely
different thing. “I think Avonlea is a lovely place; and the people in
it are very nice, too.”
“I guess you’ve got a spice of temper,” commented Mr. Harrison,
surveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. “It goes
with hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or I
wouldn’t have located here; but I suppose even you will admit that it
has _some_ faults?”
“I like it all the better for them,” said loyal Anne. “I don’t like
places or people either that haven’t any faults. I think a truly
perfect person would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she
never met a perfect person, but she’s heard enough about one . . . her
husband’s first wife. Don’t you think it must be very uncomfortable to
be married to a man whose first wife was perfect?”
“It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife,”
declared Mr. Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicable warmth.
When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr.
Harrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for
weeks yet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no
broom was visible and she did not like to ask where it was for fear
there wasn’t one at all.
“You might run across and talk to me once in a while,” suggested Mr.
Harrison when she was leaving. “’Tisn’t far and folks ought to be
neighborly. I’m kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to
me there’ll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?”
“We are not going to meddle with _people_ . . . it is only _places_ we
mean to improve,” said Anne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspected
that Mr. Harrison was making fun of the project.
When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window . . . a
lithe, girlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the
sunset afterglow.
“I’m a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap,” he said aloud, “but there’s
something about that little girl makes me feel young again . . . and
it’s such a pleasant sensation I’d like to have it repeated once in a
while.”
“Redheaded snippet,” croaked Ginger mockingly.
Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot.
“You ornery bird,” he muttered, “I almost wish I’d wrung your neck when
my brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done getting
me into trouble?”
Anne ran home blithely and recounted her adventures to Marilla, who had
been not a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point of
starting out to look for her.
“It’s a pretty good world, after all, isn’t it, Marilla?” concluded
Anne happily. “Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn’t
much of a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything
pleasant you were sure to be more or less disappointed . . . perhaps
that is true. But there is a good side to it too. The bad things don’t
always come up to your expectations either . . . they nearly always
turn out ever so much better than you think. I looked forward to a
dreadfully unpleasant experience when I went over to Mr. Harrison’s
tonight; and instead he was quite kind and I had almost a nice time. I
think we’re going to be real good friends if we make plenty of
allowances for each other, and everything has turned out for the best.
But all the same, Marilla, I shall certainly never again sell a cow
before making sure to whom she belongs. And I do _not_ like parrots!”
IV
Different Opinions
One evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert Blythe, and Anne Shirley
were lingering by a fence in the shadow of gently swaying spruce
boughs, where a wood cut known as the Birch Path joined the main road.
Jane had been up to spend the afternoon with Anne, who walked part of
the way home with her; at the fence they met Gilbert, and all three
were now talking about the fateful morrow; for that morrow was the
first of September and the schools would open. Jane would go to
Newbridge and Gilbert to White Sands.
“You both have the advantage of me,” sighed Anne. “You’re going to
teach children who don’t know you, but I have to teach my own old
schoolmates, and Mrs. Lynde says she’s afraid they won’t respect me as
they would a stranger unless I’m very cross from the first. But I don’t
believe a teacher should be cross. Oh, it seems to me such a
responsibility!”
“I guess we’ll get on all right,” said Jane comfortably. Jane was not
troubled by any aspirations to be an influence for good. She meant to
earn her salary fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on the
School Inspector’s roll of honor. Further ambitions Jane had none. “The
main thing will be to keep order and a teacher has to be a little cross
to do that. If my pupils won’t do as I tell them I shall punish them.”
“How?”
“Give them a good whipping, of course.”
“Oh, Jane, you wouldn’t,” cried Anne, shocked. “Jane, you _couldn’t!_”
“Indeed, I could and would, if they deserved it,” said Jane decidedly.
“I could _never_ whip a child,” said Anne with equal decision. “I don’t
believe in it _at all_. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and she had
perfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no order
at all. No, if I can’t get along without whipping I shall not try to
teach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my
pupils’ affections and then they will _want_ to do what I tell them.”
“But suppose they don’t?” said practical Jane.
“I wouldn’t whip them anyhow. I’m sure it wouldn’t do any good. Oh,
don’t whip your pupils, Jane dear, no matter what they do.”
“What do you think about it, Gilbert?” demanded Jane. “Don’t you think
there are some children who really need a whipping now and then?”
“Don’t you think it’s a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child . . .
_any_ child?” exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness.
“Well,” said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and his
wish to measure up to Anne’s ideal, “there’s something to be said on