wouldn’t leave it where the children can see it. Sometimes I am beginning to think there is no such thing as modesty left in the world. My grandmother,’ concluded Aunt Mary Maria, with the delightful inconsequence that characterized so many of her remarks, ‘never wore less than three petticoats, winter and summer.’
Aunt Mary Maria had knitted ‘wristers’ for all the children out of a dreadful shade of magenta yarn, also a sweater for Anne, Gilbert received a bilious necktie; and Susan got a red flannel petticoat. Even Susan considered red flannel petticoats out of date, but she thanked Aunt Mary Maria gallantly.
‘Some poor home missionary may be the better of it,’ she thought. ‘Three petticoats, indeed! I flatter myself I am a decent woman, and I like that Silver Bow person. She may not have much in the way of clothes on, but if I had a figure like that I do not know that I would want to hide it. But now to see about the turkey stuffing… not that it will amount to much with no onion in it.’
Ingleside was full of happiness that day, just plain, old-fashioned happiness, in spite of Aunt Mary Maria, who certainly did not like to see people too happy.
‘White meat only, please. (James, eat your soup quietly.) Ah, you are not the carver your father was, Gilbert.
He
could give everyone the bit she liked best. (Twins, older people would like a chance now and then to get a word in edgewise.
I
was brought up by the rule that children should be seen and not heard.) No, thank you, Gilbert, no salad for me. I don’t eat raw food. Yes, Annie, I’ll take a
little
pudding. Mince pies are entirely too indigestible.’
‘Susan’s mince pies are poems, just as her apple pies are lyrics,’ said the doctor. ‘Give
me
a piece of both, Anne-girl.’
‘Do you really like to be called “girl” at your age, Annie? (Walter, you haven’t eaten all your bread and butter. Plenty of poor children would be glad to have it. James, dear, blow your nose and have it over with, I
cannot
endure sniffling.)’
But it was a gay and lovely Christmas. Even Aunt Mary Maria thawed out a little after dinner, said almost graciously that the presents given her had been quite nice, and endured the Shrimp with an air of patient martyrdom that made them all feel a little ashamed of loving him.
‘I think our little folk have had a nice time,’ said Anne happily that night, as she looked at the pattern of trees woven against the white hills and sunset sky, and the children out on the lawn busily scattering crumbs for birds over the snow. The wind was sighing softly in the boughs, sending flurries over the lawn and promising more storm for the morrow, but Ingleside had had its day.
‘I suppose they had,’ agreed Aunt Mary Maria. ‘I’m sure they did enough squealing anyhow. As for what they have eaten… ah, well, you’re only young once, and I suppose you have plenty of castor oil in the house.’
14
It was what Susan called a streaky winter… all thaws and freezes that kept Ingleside decorated with fantastic fringes of icicles. The children fed seven blue-jays who came regularly to the orchard for their rations and let Jem pick them up, though they flew from everybody else. Anne sat up o’ nights to pore over seed catalogues in January and February. Then the winds of March swirled over the dunes and up the harbour and over the hills. Rabbits, said Susan, were laying Easter eggs.
‘Isn’t March an
in
citing month, Mummy?’ cried Jem, who was a little brother to all the winds that blew.
They could have spared the ‘incitement’ of Jem scratching his hand on a rusty nail and having a nasty time of it for some days, while Aunt Mary Maria told all the stories of blood-poisoning she had ever heard. But that, Anne reflected when the danger was over, was what you must expect with a small son who was always trying experiments.
And lo, it was April! With the laughter of April rain… the whisper of April rain… the trickle,
Aunt Mary Maria had knitted ‘wristers’ for all the children out of a dreadful shade of magenta yarn, also a sweater for Anne, Gilbert received a bilious necktie; and Susan got a red flannel petticoat. Even Susan considered red flannel petticoats out of date, but she thanked Aunt Mary Maria gallantly.
‘Some poor home missionary may be the better of it,’ she thought. ‘Three petticoats, indeed! I flatter myself I am a decent woman, and I like that Silver Bow person. She may not have much in the way of clothes on, but if I had a figure like that I do not know that I would want to hide it. But now to see about the turkey stuffing… not that it will amount to much with no onion in it.’
Ingleside was full of happiness that day, just plain, old-fashioned happiness, in spite of Aunt Mary Maria, who certainly did not like to see people too happy.
‘White meat only, please. (James, eat your soup quietly.) Ah, you are not the carver your father was, Gilbert.
He
could give everyone the bit she liked best. (Twins, older people would like a chance now and then to get a word in edgewise.
I
was brought up by the rule that children should be seen and not heard.) No, thank you, Gilbert, no salad for me. I don’t eat raw food. Yes, Annie, I’ll take a
little
pudding. Mince pies are entirely too indigestible.’
‘Susan’s mince pies are poems, just as her apple pies are lyrics,’ said the doctor. ‘Give
me
a piece of both, Anne-girl.’
‘Do you really like to be called “girl” at your age, Annie? (Walter, you haven’t eaten all your bread and butter. Plenty of poor children would be glad to have it. James, dear, blow your nose and have it over with, I
cannot
endure sniffling.)’
But it was a gay and lovely Christmas. Even Aunt Mary Maria thawed out a little after dinner, said almost graciously that the presents given her had been quite nice, and endured the Shrimp with an air of patient martyrdom that made them all feel a little ashamed of loving him.
‘I think our little folk have had a nice time,’ said Anne happily that night, as she looked at the pattern of trees woven against the white hills and sunset sky, and the children out on the lawn busily scattering crumbs for birds over the snow. The wind was sighing softly in the boughs, sending flurries over the lawn and promising more storm for the morrow, but Ingleside had had its day.
‘I suppose they had,’ agreed Aunt Mary Maria. ‘I’m sure they did enough squealing anyhow. As for what they have eaten… ah, well, you’re only young once, and I suppose you have plenty of castor oil in the house.’
14
It was what Susan called a streaky winter… all thaws and freezes that kept Ingleside decorated with fantastic fringes of icicles. The children fed seven blue-jays who came regularly to the orchard for their rations and let Jem pick them up, though they flew from everybody else. Anne sat up o’ nights to pore over seed catalogues in January and February. Then the winds of March swirled over the dunes and up the harbour and over the hills. Rabbits, said Susan, were laying Easter eggs.
‘Isn’t March an
in
citing month, Mummy?’ cried Jem, who was a little brother to all the winds that blew.
They could have spared the ‘incitement’ of Jem scratching his hand on a rusty nail and having a nasty time of it for some days, while Aunt Mary Maria told all the stories of blood-poisoning she had ever heard. But that, Anne reflected when the danger was over, was what you must expect with a small son who was always trying experiments.
And lo, it was April! With the laughter of April rain… the whisper of April rain… the trickle,
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