I
An Irate Neighbor
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 yellowcovered 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.
