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Just a Happy Day
"After all," Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest and
sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful
or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures,
following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string."
Life at Green Gables was full of just such days, for Anne's adventures and
misadventures, like those of other people, did not all happen at once, but
were sprinkled over the year, with long stretches of harmless, happy days
between, filled with work and dreams and laughter and lessons. Such a day
came late in August. In the forenoon Anne and Diana rowed the delighted
twins down the pond to the sandshore to pick "sweet grass" and paddle in
the surf, over which the wind was harping an old lyric learned when the
world was young.
In the afternoon Anne walked down to the old Irving place to see Paul. She
found him stretched out on the grassy bank beside the thick fir grove that
sheltered the house on the north, absorbed in a book of fairy tales. He
sprang up radiantly at sight of her.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, teacher," he said eagerly, "because
Grandma's away. You'll stay and have tea with me, won't you? It's so
lonesome to have tea all by oneself. YOU know, teacher. I've had serious
thoughts of asking Young Mary Joe to sit down and eat her tea with me, but
I expect Grandma wouldn't approve. She says the French have to be kept in
their place. And anyhow, it's difficult to talk with Young Mary Joe. She
just laughs and says, 'Well, yous do beat all de kids I ever knowed.' That
isn't my idea of conversation."
"Of course I'll stay to tea," said Anne gaily. "I was dying to be asked.
My mouth has been watering for some more of your grandma's delicious
shortbread ever since I had tea here before."
Paul looked very sober.
"If it depended on me, teacher," he said, standing before Anne with his
hands in his pockets and his beautiful little face shadowed with sudden
care, "You should have shortbread with a right good will. But it depends
on Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her before she left that she wasn't to
give me any shortcake because it was too rich for little boys' stomachs.
But maybe Mary Joe will cut some for you if I promise I won't eat any. Let
us hope for the best."
"Yes, let us," agreed Anne, whom this cheerful philosophy suited exactly,
"and if Mary Joe proves hard-hearted and won't give me any shortbread it
doesn't matter in the least, so you are not to worry over that."
"You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't?" said Paul anxiously.
"Perfectly sure, dear heart."
"Then I won't worry," said Paul, with a long breath of relief, "especially
as I really think Mary Joe will listen to reason. She's not a naturally
unreasonable person, but she has learned by experience that it doesn't do
to disobey Grandma's orders. Grandma is an excellent woman but people must
do as she tells them. She was very much pleased with me this morning
because I managed at last to eat all my plateful of porridge. It was a
great effort but I succeeded. Grandma says she thinks she'll make a man of
me yet. But, teacher, I want to ask you a very important question. You
will answer it truthfully, won't you?"
"I'll try," promised Anne.
"Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story?" asked Paul, as if his very
existence depended on her reply.
"Goodness, no, Paul," exclaimed Anne in amazement. "Certainly you're not.
What put such an idea into your head?"
"Mary Joe . . . but she didn't know I heard her. Mrs. Peter Sloane's hired
girl, Veronica, came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heard them talking
in the kitchen as I was going through the hall. I heard 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
"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
"And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your
"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
"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,
"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 of its goddess. Even in
quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be met and faced. White Sands
youth were a rather "fast" set, and Gilbert was popular wherever he went.
But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne's friendship and perhaps some
distant day her love; and he watched over word and thought and deed as
jealously as if her clear eyes were to pass in judgment on it. She held
over him the unconscious influence that every girl, whose ideals are high
and pure, wields over her friends; an influence which would endure as long
as she was faithful to those ideals and which she would as certainly lose
if she were ever false to them. In Gilbert's eyes Anne's greatest charm
was the fact that she never stooped to the petty practices of so many of
the Avonlea girls—the small jealousies, the little deceits and
rivalries, the palpable bids for favor. Anne held herself apart from all
this, not consciously or of design, but simply because anything of the
sort was utterly foreign to her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal
clear in its motives and aspirations.
But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words, for he had
already too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostily
nip all attempts at sentiment in the bud—or laugh at him, which was
ten times worse.
"You look like a real dryad under that birch tree," he said teasingly.
"I love birch trees," said Anne, laying her cheek against the creamy satin
of the slim bole, with one of the pretty, caressing gestures that came so
natural to her.
"Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spencer has decided to set out
a row of white birches all along the road front of his farm, by way of
encouraging the A.V.I.S.," said Gilbert. "He was talking to me about it
today. Major Spencer is the most progressive and public-spirited man in
Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to set out a spruce hedge along his
road front and up his lane. Our Society is getting on splendidly, Anne. It
is past the experimental stage and is an accepted fact. The older folks
are beginning to take an interest in it and the White Sands people are
talking of starting one too. Even Elisha Wright has come around since that
day the Americans from the hotel had the picnic at the shore. They praised
our roadsides so highly and said they were so much prettier than in any
other part of the Island. And when, in due time, the other farmers follow
Mr. Spencer's good example and plant ornamental trees and hedges along
their road fronts Avonlea will be the prettiest settlement in the
"The Aids are talking of taking up the graveyard," said Anne, "and I hope
they will, because there will have to be a subscription for that, and it
would be no use for the Society to try it after the hall affair. But the
Aids would never have stirred in the matter if the Society hadn't put it
into their thoughts unofficially. Those trees we planted on the church
grounds are flourishing, and the trustees have promised me that they will
fence in the school grounds next year. If they do I'll have an arbor day
and every scholar shall plant a tree; and we'll have a garden in the
corner by the road."
"We've succeeded in almost all our plans so far, except in getting the old
Boulter house removed," said Gilbert, "and I've given THAT up in despair.
Levi won't have it taken down just to vex us. There's a contrary streak in
all the Boulters and it's strongly developed in him."
"Julia Bell wants to send another committee to him, but I think the better
way will just be to leave him severely alone," said Anne sagely.
"And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lynde says," smiled Gilbert. "Certainly,
no more committees. They only aggravate him. Julia Bell thinks you can do
anything, if you only have a committee to attempt it. Next spring, Anne,
we must start an agitation for nice lawns and grounds. We'll sow good seed
betimes this winter. I've a treatise here on lawns and lawnmaking and I'm
going to prepare a paper on the subject soon. Well, I suppose our vacation
is almost over. School opens Monday. Has Ruby Gillis got the Carmody
"Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own home school, so the
Carmody trustees gave it to Ruby. I'm sorry Priscilla is not coming back,
but since she can't I'm glad Ruby has got the school. She will be home for
Saturdays and it will seem like old times, to have her and Jane and Diana
and myself all together again."
Marilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde's, was sitting on the back porch step
when Anne returned to the house.
"Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to town tomorrow," she said.
"Mr. Lynde is feeling better this week and Rachel wants to go before he
has another sick spell."
"I intend to get up extra early tomorrow morning, for I've ever so much to
do," said Anne virtuously. "For one thing, I'm going to shift the feathers
from my old bedtick to the new one. I ought to have done it long ago but
I've just kept putting it off . . . it's such a detestable task. It's a
very bad habit to put off disagreeable things, and I never mean to again,
or else I can't comfortably tell my pupils not to do it. That would be
inconsistent. Then I want to make a cake for Mr. Harrison and finish my
paper on gardens for the A.V.I.S., and write Stella, and wash and starch
my muslin dress, and make Dora's new apron."
"You won't get half done," said Marilla pessimistically. "I never yet
planned to do a lot of things but something happened to prevent me."