saw Horse it made her feel better.Bolstered by his presence she said out loud (to whom? to the watching eyes?), “I’ll ignore the whole thing, the way Liza does. I’ll just pay no attention,” and she turned her back to the house and tried to rouse Horse to play a game. He only opened one eye, looked at her, and closed it.
After a few minutes she couldn’t bear not looking at the house – in case someone was there ready to come out at her. She lectured herself again, “Don’t be foolish,” she said sternly, “why should you ignore it. Just go right in there. Get yourself some lemonade and a book or something.” And, obeying her own orders, she did that walking carefully into the kitchen whistling “Barbara Allen” under her breath, and then into Papa’s study whistling a little more loudly, and pounced on the first book that came to hand – the one open on Papa’s desk. It was
City on the Lake: Being a Brief History of Toronto 1793-1864,
by William Sabiston.
“Why didn’t we think of this,” she said to herself, “when we were looking for books? Maybe Great-Great-Uncle has something in his book we can use.” Feeling a trifle guilty about taking it from Papa’s desk, she shoved it under her arm and walked with great speed back to the garden. There she settled herself – not too far from Horse – to try to read the book and drink her lemonade.
“When my grandfather, Patrick Sabiston, set sail from far off England,” she read, “accompanied by his wife, his twin daughters and his two sons, for this untrammelled wilderness by the lake, this shining big sea water as it wasthen called by the native Indians who had lived savage by its shore for so many centuries, he little dreamed how successful would be his venture, or what triumphs and griefs there were in store for him and his family. Muddy little York (for our now fair and burgeoning city was then known all over the world as ‘muddy little York,’ a town to be ridiculed and scorned by visitors from older cities on the other side of the great ocean) was then in …”
Jane’s attention slid off Great-Great-Uncle’s endless and tedious sentences. The book was no help. The fear she was trying so hard to keep down rose again in her throat.
“Oh Horse,” she whispered, rolling over and nuzzling him closely, “I’m so glad you’ve grown so nice and big.” She sat up and forced her attention back to the book, her eyes touching bits of sentences up and down the pages. It didn’t seem to be a history of Toronto as much as of the Sabiston family and their house. “Houses,” she muttered, “I know all about them,” and went skipping through, “homestead by the lake … log house … later additions obscured the original shape … tower my father appended to the northwest corner, fine view of the lake and the cherry tree garden below …” Jane put down the book in surprise.
“Why, he means this house.” She looked at the house, curiosity for the moment getting the better of fear. “I wonder what it looked like?” Then it occurred to her, “I suppose it looked like all those other houses we’ve been looking at. When was it built first, anyway?” She picked up the book and leafed quickly back through it. “Here it is,‘The first log house was constructed in 1833 to be replaced in two years by a more substantial brick structure of the kind fashionable at that time.’ ”
“Well I know what that was,” said Jane, and began trying to puzzle out the old house inside the shape of the new.
“There’s the peak, just below the tower over our door,” she murmured holding up her forefinger and tracing its outline as though she were drawing a sketch. “There’s the roof line, no trim though – yes, it must be under the ivy.”
The outline of the little house was beginning to show itself to her, like the cat or the teacup in the pictures where it says, “find the hidden whatever it is.”
“Then Porridge’s pigeon hole and that
After a few minutes she couldn’t bear not looking at the house – in case someone was there ready to come out at her. She lectured herself again, “Don’t be foolish,” she said sternly, “why should you ignore it. Just go right in there. Get yourself some lemonade and a book or something.” And, obeying her own orders, she did that walking carefully into the kitchen whistling “Barbara Allen” under her breath, and then into Papa’s study whistling a little more loudly, and pounced on the first book that came to hand – the one open on Papa’s desk. It was
City on the Lake: Being a Brief History of Toronto 1793-1864,
by William Sabiston.
“Why didn’t we think of this,” she said to herself, “when we were looking for books? Maybe Great-Great-Uncle has something in his book we can use.” Feeling a trifle guilty about taking it from Papa’s desk, she shoved it under her arm and walked with great speed back to the garden. There she settled herself – not too far from Horse – to try to read the book and drink her lemonade.
“When my grandfather, Patrick Sabiston, set sail from far off England,” she read, “accompanied by his wife, his twin daughters and his two sons, for this untrammelled wilderness by the lake, this shining big sea water as it wasthen called by the native Indians who had lived savage by its shore for so many centuries, he little dreamed how successful would be his venture, or what triumphs and griefs there were in store for him and his family. Muddy little York (for our now fair and burgeoning city was then known all over the world as ‘muddy little York,’ a town to be ridiculed and scorned by visitors from older cities on the other side of the great ocean) was then in …”
Jane’s attention slid off Great-Great-Uncle’s endless and tedious sentences. The book was no help. The fear she was trying so hard to keep down rose again in her throat.
“Oh Horse,” she whispered, rolling over and nuzzling him closely, “I’m so glad you’ve grown so nice and big.” She sat up and forced her attention back to the book, her eyes touching bits of sentences up and down the pages. It didn’t seem to be a history of Toronto as much as of the Sabiston family and their house. “Houses,” she muttered, “I know all about them,” and went skipping through, “homestead by the lake … log house … later additions obscured the original shape … tower my father appended to the northwest corner, fine view of the lake and the cherry tree garden below …” Jane put down the book in surprise.
“Why, he means this house.” She looked at the house, curiosity for the moment getting the better of fear. “I wonder what it looked like?” Then it occurred to her, “I suppose it looked like all those other houses we’ve been looking at. When was it built first, anyway?” She picked up the book and leafed quickly back through it. “Here it is,‘The first log house was constructed in 1833 to be replaced in two years by a more substantial brick structure of the kind fashionable at that time.’ ”
“Well I know what that was,” said Jane, and began trying to puzzle out the old house inside the shape of the new.
“There’s the peak, just below the tower over our door,” she murmured holding up her forefinger and tracing its outline as though she were drawing a sketch. “There’s the roof line, no trim though – yes, it must be under the ivy.”
The outline of the little house was beginning to show itself to her, like the cat or the teacup in the pictures where it says, “find the hidden whatever it is.”
“Then Porridge’s pigeon hole and that
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