Anne of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery (best ebook for manga .TXT) 📖

“Where are you going, all dressed up, Anne?” Davy wanted to know. “You look bully in that dress.”

Anne had come down to dinner in a new dress of pale green muslin . . . the first color she had worn since Matthew’s death. It became her perfectly, bringing out all the delicate, flower-like tints of her face and the gloss and burnish of her hair.

“Davy, how many times have I told you that you mustn’t use that word,” she rebuked. “I’m going to Echo Lodge.”

“Take me with you,” entreated Davy.

“I would if I were driving. But I’m going to walk and it’s too far for your eight-year-old legs. Besides, Paul is going with me and I fear you don’t enjoy yourself in his company.”

“Oh, I like Paul lots better’n I did,” said Davy, beginning to make fearful inroads into his pudding. “Since I’ve got pretty good myself I don’t mind his being gooder so much. If I can keep on I’ll catch up with him some day, both in legs and goodness. ‘Sides, Paul’s real nice to us second primer boys in school. He won’t let the other big boys meddle with us and he shows us lots of games.”

“How came Paul to fall into the brook at noon hour yesterday?” asked Anne. “I met him on the playground, such a dripping figure that I sent him promptly home for clothes without waiting to find out what had happened.”

“Well, it was partly a zacksident,” explained Davy. “He stuck his head in on purpose but the rest of him fell in zacksidentally. We was all down at the brook and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about something . . . she’s awful mean and horrid anyway, if she IS pretty . . . and said that his grandmother put his hair up in curl rags every night. Paul wouldn’t have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie Andrews laughed, and Paul got awful red, ‘cause Gracie’s his girl, you know. He’s CLEAN GONE on her . . . brings her flowers and carries her books as far as the shore road. He got as red as a beet and said his grandmother didn’t do any such thing and his hair was born curly. And then he laid down on the bank and stuck his head right into the spring to show them. Oh, it wasn’t the spring we drink out of . . .” seeing a horrified look on Marilla’s face . . . “it was the little one lower down. But the bank’s awful slippy and Paul went right in. I tell you he made a bully splash. Oh, Anne, Anne, I didn’t mean to say that . . . it just slipped out before I thought. He made a SPLENDID splash. But he looked so funny when he crawled out, all wet and muddy. The girls laughed more’n ever, but Gracie didn’t laugh. She looked sorry. Gracie’s a nice girl but she’s got a snub nose. When I get big enough to have a girl I won’t have one with a snub nose . . . I’ll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne.”

“A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over his face when he is eating his pudding will never get a girl to look at him,” said Marilla severely.

“But I’ll wash my face before I go courting,” protested Davy, trying to improve matters by rubbing the back of his hand over the smears. “And I’ll wash behind my ears too, without being told. I remembered to this morning, Marilla. I don’t forget half as often as I did. But . . .” and Davy sighed . . . “there’s so many corners about a fellow that it’s awful hard to remember them all. Well, if I can’t go to Miss Lavendar’s I’ll go over and see Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison’s an awful nice woman, I tell you. She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for little boys, and she always gives me the scrapings out of a pan she’s mixed up a plum cake in. A good many plums stick to the sides, you see. Mr. Harrison was always a nice man, but he’s twice as nice since he got married over again. I guess getting married makes folks nicer. Why don’t YOU get married, Marilla? I want to know.”

Marilla’s state of single blessedness had never been a sore point with her, so she answered amiably, with an exchange of significant looks with Anne, that she supposed it was because nobody would have her.

“But maybe you never asked anybody to have you,” protested Davy.

“Oh, Davy,” said Dora primly, shocked into speaking without being spoken to, “it’s the MEN that have to do the asking.”

“I don’t know why they have to do it ALWAYS,” grumbled Davy. “Seems to me everything’s put on the men in this world. Can I have some more pudding, Marilla?”

“You’ve had as much as was good for you,” said Marilla; but she gave him a moderate second helping.

“I wish people could live on pudding. Why can’t they, Marilla? I want to know.”

“Because they’d soon get tired of it.”

“I’d like to try that for myself,” said skeptical Davy. “But I guess it’s better to have pudding only on fish and company days than none at all. They never have any at Milty Boulter’s. Milty says when company comes his mother gives them cheese and cuts it herself . . . one little bit apiece and one over for manners.”

“If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother at least you needn’t repeat it,” said Marilla severely.

“Bless my soul,” . . . Davy had picked this expression up from Mr. Harrison and used it with great gusto . . . “Milty meant it as a compelment. He’s awful proud of his mother, cause folks say she could scratch a living on a rock.”

“I . . . I suppose them pesky hens are in my pansy bed again,” said Marilla, rising and going out hurriedly.

The slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy bed and Marilla did not even glance at it. Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatch and laughed until she was ashamed of herself.

When Anne and Paul reached the stone house that afternoon they found Miss Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking, clipping, and trimming as if for dear life. Miss Lavendar herself, all gay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, dropped her shears and ran joyously to meet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinned cheerfully.

“Welcome, Anne. I thought you’d come today. You belong to the afternoon so it brought you. Things that belong together are sure to come together. What a lot of trouble that would save some people if they only knew it. But they don’t . . . and so they waste beautiful energy moving heaven and earth to bring things together that DON’T belong. And you, Paul . . . why, you’ve grown! You’re half a head taller than