Magic for Marigold by L. M. Montgomery Page A

shall vanish away’—but the pageant of human life goes on. I’ve never tired watching it. I’ve lived nearly a century—and when all’s said and done there’s nothing I’m more thankful for than that I’ve always found the world and the people in it interesting. Yes, life’s been worth living. Marigold, how many little boys are sweet on you?”
    â€œSweet on me.” Marigold didn’t understand.
    â€œHaven’t you any little beau?” explained Old Grandmother.
    Marigold was quite shocked. “Of course not. I’m too small.”
    â€œOh, are you? I had two beaux when I was your age. Can you imagine me being seven years old and having two little boys sweet on me?”
    Marigold looked at Old Grandmother’s laughter-filled and moonlight-softened black eyes and for the first time realized that Old Grandmother had not always been old. Why, she might even have been Edith.
    â€œFor that matter I had a beau when I was six,” said Old Grandmother triumphantly. “Girls were born having beaux in my day. Little Jim Somebody—I’ve forgotten his last name if I ever knew it—walked three miles to buy a stick of candy for me. I was only six, but I knew what that meant. He has been dead for eighty years. And there was Charlie Snaith. He was nine. We always called him Froggy-face. I’ll never forget his huge round eyes staring at me as he asked, ‘Can I be your beau?’ Or how he looked when I giggled and said ‘no.’ There were a good many ‘no’s’ before I finally said ‘yes.’” Old Grandmother laughed reminiscently, with all the delight of a girl in her teens.
    â€œIt was Great-Grandfather you first said ‘yes’ to, wasn’t it?” asked Marigold.
    Old Grandmother nodded.
    â€œBut I had some narrow escapes. I was crazy about Frank Lister when I was fifteen. My folks wouldn’t let me have him. He wanted me to run away with him. I’ve always been sorry I didn’t. But then if I had I’d have been sorry for that, too. I was very near taking Bob Clancy—and now all I can remember about him was that he got drunk once and varnished his mother’s kitchen with maple-syrup. Joe Benson was in love with me. I had told him I thought he was magnificent. If you tell a certain kind of man he’s magnificent you can have him—if you really want that kind of a man. Peter March was a nice fellow. He was thought to be dying of consumption, and he pleaded with me to marry him and give him a year of happiness. Just suppose I had. He got better and lived to be seventy. Never take a risk like that with a live man, Marigold. He married Hilda Stuart. A pretty girl but too self-conscious. And every time Hilda spent more than five cents a week Peter took neuralgia. He always sat ahead of me in church, and I was always tormented with a desire to slap a spot on his bald head that looked like a fly.”
    â€œWas Great-Grandfather a handsome man?” asked Marigold.
    â€œHandsome? Handsome? Everyone was handsome a hundred years ago. I don’t know if he was handsome or not. I only know he was my man from the moment I first set eyes on him. It was at a dinner-party. He was there with Janet Churchill. She thought she had him hooked. She always hated me. I had gold slippers on that night that were too tight for me. I kicked them off under the table for a bit of ease. Never found one of them again. I knew Janet was responsible for it. But I got even with her. I took her beau. It wasn’t hard. She was a black velvet beauty of a girl—far prettier than I was—but she kept all her goods in the show-window. Where there is no mystery there is no romance. Remember that, Marigold.”
    â€œDid you and Great-Grandfather live here when you were married?”
    â€œYes. He built Cloud of Spruce and brought me here. We were quite happy. Of course we quarreled now and then.