Emily of New Moon
from the first. It was just one of Lofty John’s jokes. He thought he’d
give Emily a fright--just for fun--_his_ idea of fun. March you off to
bed, Miss Emily. You deserve all you’ve got for going over there to
Lofty John’s at all and I don’t pity you a particle. I haven’t had such
a turn for years.”
“I _did_ have a pain in my stomach,” wailed Emily, in whom fright and
mustard-and-water combined had temporarily extinguished all spirit.
“Any one who eats apples from dawn to dark must expect a few pains in
her stomach. You won’t have any more to-night, I reckon--the mustard
will remedy that. Take your candle and go.”
“Well,” said Emily, getting unsteadily to her feet, “I _hate_ that
dod-gasted Lofty John.”
“Emily!” said both aunts together.
“He _deserves_ it,” said Emily vindictively.
“Oh, Emily--that dreadful word you used!” Aunt Laura seemed curiously
upset about something.
“Why, what’s the matter with dod-gasted?” said Emily, quite mystified.
“Cousin Jimmy uses it often, when things vex him. He used it to-day--he
said that dod-gasted heifer had broken out of the graveyard pasture
again.”
“Emily,” said Aunt Elizabeth, with the air of one impaling herself on
the easiest horn of a dilemma, “your Cousin Jimmy is a man--and men
sometimes use expressions, in the heat of anger, that are not proper
for little girls.”
“But what _is_ the matter with dod-gasted?” persisted Emily. “It isn’t
a swear word, is it? And if it isn’t, why can’t I use it?”
“It isn’t a--a ladylike word,” said Aunt Laura.
“Well, then, I won’t use it any more,” said Emily resignedly, “but
Lofty John _is_ dod-gasted.”
Aunt Laura laughed so much after Emily had gone upstairs that Aunt
Elizabeth told her a woman of her age should have more sense.
“Elizabeth, you _know_ it was funny,” protested Laura.
Emily being safely out of sight, Elizabeth permitted herself a somewhat
grim smile.
“I told Lofty John a few plain truths--he’ll not go telling children
they’re poisoned again in a hurry. I left him fairly dancing with rage.”
Worn out, Emily fell asleep as soon as she was in bed; but an hour
later she awakened. Aunt Elizabeth had not yet come to bed so the blind
was still up and Emily saw a dear, friendly star winking down at her.
Far away the sea moaned alluringly. Oh, it was nice just to be alone
and to be alive. Life tasted good to her again--“tasted like more,” as
Cousin Jimmy said. She could have a chance to write more letter-bills,
and poetry--Emily already saw a yard of verses entitled “Thoughts of
One Doomed to Sudden Death”--and play with Ilse and Teddy--scour the
barns with Saucy Sal, watch Aunt Laura skim cream in the dairy and
help cousin Jimmy garden,--read books in Emily’s Bower and trot along
the To-day Road--but _not_ visit Lofty John’s workshop. She determined
that she would never have anything to do with Lofty John again after
his diabolical cruelty. She felt so indignant with him for frightening
her--after they had been such good friends, too--that she could not go
to sleep until she had composed an account of her death by poison, of
Lofty John being tried for her murder and condemned to death, and of
his being hanged on a gibbet as lofty as himself, Emily being present
at the dreadful scene, in spite of the fact that she was dead by his
act. When she had finally cut him down and buried him with obloquy--the
tears streaming down her face out of sympathy for Mrs. Lofty John--she
forgave him. Very likely he was not dod-gasted after all.
She wrote it all down on a letter-bill in the garret the next day.
CHAPTER XIV
FANCY FED
In October Cousin Jimmy began to boil the pigs’ potatoes--unromantic
name for a most romantic occupation--or so it appeared to Emily, whose
love of the beautiful and picturesque was satisfied as it had never yet
been on those long, cool, starry twilights of the waning year at New
Moon.
There was a clump of spruce-trees in a corner of the old orchard,
and under them an immense iron pot was hung over a circle of large
stones--a pot so big that an ox could have been comfortably stewed in
it. Emily thought it must have come down from the days of fairy tales
and been some giant’s porridge pot; but Cousin Jimmy told her that it
was only a hundred years old and old Hugh Murray had had it sent out
from England.
“We’ve used it ever since to boil the potatoes for the New Moon pigs,”
he said. “Blair Water folks think it old-fashioned; they’ve all got
boiler-houses now, with built-in boilers; but as long as Elizabeth’s
boss at New Moon we’ll use this.”
Emily was sure no built-in boiler could have the charm of the big pot.
She helped Cousin Jimmy fill it full of potatoes after she came from
school; then, when supper was over, Cousin Jimmy lighted the fire
under it and puttered about it all the evening. Sometimes he poked
the fire--Emily loved that part of the performance--sending glorious
streams of rosy sparks upward into the darkness; sometimes he stirred
the potatoes with a long pole, looking, with his queer, forked grey
beard and belted “jumper,” just like some old gnome or troll of
northland story mixing the contents of a magical caldron; and sometimes
he sat beside Emily on the grey granite boulder near the pot and
recited his poetry for her. Emily liked this best of all, for Cousin
Jimmy’s poetry was surprisingly good--at least in spots--and Cousin
Jimmy had “fit audience though few” in this slender little maiden with
her pale eager face and rapt eyes.
They were an odd couple and they were perfectly happy together. Blair
Water people thought Cousin Jimmy a failure and a mental weakling.
But he dwelt in an ideal world of which none of them knew anything.
He had recited his poems a hundred times thus, as he boiled the pigs’
potatoes; the ghosts of a score of autumns haunted the clump of spruces
for him. He was an odd, ridiculous figure enough, bent and wrinkled and
unkempt, gesticulating awkwardly as he recited. But it was his hour;
he was no longer “simple Jimmy Murray” but a prince in his own realm.
For a little while he was strong and young and splendid and beautiful,
accredited master of song to a listening, enraptured world. None of his
prosperous, sensible Blair Water neighbours ever lived through such
an hour. He would not have exchanged places with one of them. Emily,
listening to him, felt vaguely that if it had not been for that unlucky
push into the New Moon well, this queer little man beside her might
have stood in the presence of kings.
But Elizabeth _had_ pushed him into the New Moon well and as a
consequence he boiled pigs’ potatoes and recited to Emily--Emily, who
wrote poetry too, and loved these evenings so much that she could not
sleep after she went to bed until she had composed a minute description
of them. The flash came almost every evening over something or
other. The Wind Woman swooped or purred in the tossing boughs above
them--Emily had never been so near to seeing her; the sharp air was
full of the pleasant tang of the burning spruce cones Cousin Jimmy
shovelled under the pot; Emily’s furry kitten, Mike II, frisked and
scampered about like a small, charming demon of the night; the fire
glowed with beautiful redness and allure through the gloom; there were
nice whispery sounds everywhere; the “great big dark” lay spread around
them full of mysteries that daylight never revealed; and over all a
purple sky powdered with stars.
Ilse and Teddy came, too, on some evenings. Emily always knew when
Teddy was coming, for when he reached the old orchard he whistled his
“call”--the one he used just for her--a funny, dear little call, like
three clear bird notes, the first just medium pitch, the second higher,
the third dropping away into lowness and sweetness long-drawn-out--like
the echoes in the _Bugle Song_ that went clearer and further in their
dying. That call always had an odd effect on Emily; it seemed to her
that it fairly drew the heart out of her body--and she _had_ to follow
it. She thought Teddy could have whistled her clear across the world
with those three magic notes. Whenever she heard it she ran quickly
through the orchard and told Teddy whether Cousin Jimmy wanted him or
not, because it was only on certain nights that Cousin Jimmy wanted
anybody but her. He would never recite his poetry to Ilse or Teddy;
but he told them fairy stories, and tales about the old dead-and-gone
Murrays in the pond graveyard that were as queer, sometimes, as the
fairy stories; and Ilse would recite too, doing better there than
she ever did anywhere else; and sometimes Teddy lay sprawled out on
the ground beside the big pot and drew pictures by the light of the
fire--pictures of Cousin Jimmy stirring the potatoes--pictures of
Ilse and Emily dancing hand in hand around it like two small witches,
pictures of Mike’s cunning, little, whiskered face peering around the
old boulder, pictures of weird, vague faces crowding in the darkness
outside their enchanted circle. They had very wonderful evenings there,
those four children.
“Oh, don’t you like the world at night, Ilse?” Emily once said
rapturously.
Ilse glanced happily around her--poor little neglected Ilse, who found
in Emily’s companionship what she had hungered for all her short life
and who was, even now, being led by love into something of her rightful
heritage.
“Yes,” she said. “And I always believe there _is_ a God when I’m here
like this.”
Then the potatoes were done--and Cousin Jimmy gave each of them one
before he mixed in the bran; they broke them in pieces on plates of
birch-bark, sprinkled them with salt which Emily had cached in a small
box under the roots of the biggest spruce, and ate them with gusto. No
banquet of gods was ever as delicious as those potatoes. Then finally
came Aunt Laura’s kind, silvery voice calling through the frosty dark;
Ilse and Teddy scampered homewards; and Emily captured Mike II and shut
him up safely for the night in the New Moon dog-house which had held
no dog for years, but was still carefully preserved and whitewashed
every spring. Emily’s heart would have broken if anything had happened
to Mike II.
“Old Kelly,” the tin pedlar, had given him to her. Old Kelly had come
round through Blair Water every fortnight from May to November for
thirty years, perched on the seat of a bright red pedlar’s wagon and
behind a dusty, ambling, red pony of that peculiar gait and appearance
pertaining to the ponies of country pedlars--a certain placid,
unhasting leanness as of a nag that has encountered troubles of his own
and has lived them down by sheer patience and staying power. From the
bright red wagon proceeded a certain metallic rumbling and clinking
as it bowled along, and two huge nests of tin pans on its flat,
rope-encircled roof flashed back the sunlight so dazzlingly that Old
Kelly seemed the beaming sun of a little planetary system all his own.
A new broom, sticking up aggressively at each of the four corners gave
the wagon a resemblance to a triumphal chariot. Emily hankered secretly
for a ride in Old Kelly’s wagon. She thought it must be very delightful.
Old Kelly and she were great friends. She liked his red, clean-shaven
face under his plug hat, his nice, twinkly, blue eyes, his brush of
upstanding, sandy hair, and his comical pursed-up mouth, the shape of
which was partly due to nature and partly to much whistling. He always
had a little three-cornered paper bag of “lemon drops” for her, or a
candy stick of many colours, which he smuggled into her pocket when
Aunt Elizabeth wasn’t looking. And he never forgot to tell her that
he supposed she’d soon be thinking of getting married--for Old Kelly
thought that the surest way to please a female creature of any age was
to tease her about getting married.