Section 11 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brenda J. Davis. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 11. The Knuckling Down of Mrs. Gamble. Mrs. Gamble was knitting by the west window of the kitchen. It was already quite dark in the big spotless room, for the kitchen of the Gamble farmhouse was on the north side and was shadowed west and north by a grove of furs. Outside it was a chill, colourless November dusk. Overhead the grey sky was faintly flushed with a transient pink and lower down between the dark boughs of the furs and far away over the dull hills. Mrs. Gamble could see the sullen crimson bars of an autumn sunset. The cherry tree at the corner of the house was tossing its bare boughs weirdly, and shriveled brown leaves went scurrying up and down the garden in uncanny dances before the breath of viewless winds. Mrs. Gamble dropped her knitting on her lap and leaned forward to look out of the window through the furs to that red glow fading sunset. She was a tall stout woman of perhaps sixty, for there were many grey threads in the smooth, thick waves of somewhat coarse, auburn hair that framed her strong featured face. Amelia Gamble had never used spectacles in her life, and her light grey eyes were as keen and penetrating as they had ever been, and a good deal harder. She drew her black shawl closer about her square shoulders and shivered a little. It's dreadful cold and bleak out tonight, she said aloud. She had a habit of talking to herself, for she was a woman who hated to be alone and was given to many devices for circumventing unwelcome solitude. I should wonder if we had snow before morning. It would be a relief to see those long bare hills covered over. I hope it won't rain anyhow.  I wish James was home, because if someone would drop in for company, it makes me feel nervous some way to be alone in this big house. I must be getting old and silly when I get such notions in my head. She went and poked up the fire. She would have some cheerful light anyhow. Amelia Gamble had been brought up to consider its shameful waste to light a candle before it was absolutely dark, and she had never departed from the traditions of her childhood. Then she went to the other window. It looked out on the long valley of the village, at the head of which the gamble homestead stood on the hill. The main road wound through the valley, and here and there along the done slope's early lights twinkled. Mrs. Gamble's cold eyes swept down the length of the valley, and then fell on a beshawled figure coming up the lane between the rows of bare sweetbriar bushes. That's Laurella Johnson, said Mrs. Gamble. I'd know that wobbly walk of hers anywhere. I don't know as I'm glad to see her, for all I've been wishing someone would step in. She's a gossip and a pry, and that tongue of hers is hung in the middle. It's queer how some folks aren't happy unless they're forever poking their noses into something that don't concern them. She had been moving swiftly about during this monologue, pushing chairs into place and lighting a lamp. When Laurella's sharp, imperative little rat attack came at the door, Mrs. Gamble opened it and bade her collar a semi-cordial good evening. But Laurella Johnson was not to be daunted by a cool reception. It was her maxim to make herself at home under all circumstances, and when she had laid off her hat and shawl and ensconced herself comfortably in the rocker, she used from her satchel a long gray woollen sock and began to knit, her tongue keeping time to the click of the needles.  Mrs. Gamble disliked her, Laurella knew it, but had her own way of taking revenge. I knew James wouldn't be back till late, she said, so I thought I'd run up and keep you company for an hour or so. Don't you find it rather lonesome here by spells? Not particularly, was the curt response. There's too much to do for that. Fine ladies with nothing to do may find time to be lonesome, perhaps I never could. Laurella smiled and shifted her tactics. She understood Amelia Gamble. That's so, she assented smoothly. Fact is, it's a marvel to me how you ever managed to keep up with your work so well. It's a great thing to have your good health now, me. I'm never well two days at a time. I have a cough now. There's a good deal of sickness round the center. Dr. Richardson has kept pretty busy, I guess. The dales are down with diptheria. Laurella stopped for breath, and Mrs. Gamble narrowed her lips down heartily as she stooped to pick a stray wisp of yarn from the yellow painted floor. If there's anything going, the dales will have it, I'll be bound, she said. When they are well, they go gadding around until they catch something. Where'd they get the diptheria? Over Calton Way, they say. I suppose you know Flory has it, too. It was the most effective shot in Laurella's locker, and her lead-colored eyes watched Mrs. Gamble keenly as it was fired. The result disappointed her. Mrs. Gamble started slightly, but showed no other sign of emotion. Spencer Flory? Yes. Of course, I suppose you knew. She took down with it Monday. Dr. Richardson says she's pretty bad, I guess Jesse is about worn out. Have you been to see them, Mrs. Gamble? A braver woman than Laurella Johnson might have quailed before the flash of Amelia Gamble's gray eyes. You know as well as I do, Laurella Johnson, that I've never been to see Jesse Gamble at any time, and don't ever expect to go. She's nothing more to me than any stranger, no her husband either. Mrs. Gamble, your own son! Faulted Laurella deprecatingly. He's been no son of mine ever since he married Jesse Green. I gave him his choice between us, and he made it. I must abide by it. I'm sorry to hear Flory is ill, just as I'd be sorry for anybody's child. Is she dangerous, did you say? The doctor hasn't much hope of her, I believe. Spencer's just distracted, so they say, and Jesse too. She's the only one and they're just wrapped up in her. Like it's not, it's one of proper nursing is the trouble. Jesse isn't much of a hand in sickness, I suppose. Never had any experience, and she can't get anyone. People are scared, you know. Dipteria isn't a thing to be trifled with. Jesse Green never had any faculty for managing anyhow, said Mrs. Gamble coldly. There never was a green that had any constitution, either. Flory was always a sickly child. Don't you find it chilly in that corner, LaRilly? Move nearer the fire. Laurella understood that Mrs. Gamble considered the discussion of Spencer Gamble's family troubles closed, and nothing more was said on the tabooed subject. When she finally went away, Mrs. Gamble sped the parting guest without any regret. I wish she'd stayed away. She muttered. Or held her tongue about Spencer's folks when she did come. I don't want to be told anything about them. LaRilly Johnson is always trying to twit me underhand about that affair. Flory Gamble isn't anything more to me than any other lawton child. This James now, as her quick ear caught the rumble of wheels coming down the hard frozen lane. I'm sure I'm glad. I don't know what has got into me tonight. I seem to get all of a tremble when I'm left alone. She had this upper table set for her husband by the time he came in with his arms full of parcels, which he deposited silently on the dresser. James Gamble was a tall, stoop-shouldered old man with dim, blinking eyes and long straggles of thin gray hair and whiskers. There was something meek and deprecating about his whole appearance. Lawton Gossip said that James Gamble never dared to have an opinion of his own in the presence of his wife. Supper was a silent meal. Neither of the two seemed disposed to talk. As Mrs. Gamble passed her husband his second cup of tea, he cleared his throat tentatively and stirred the tea with the air of a timid man who wants to say something. Melly, did you hear that Spence's flurry was down with the deep theory? He said, hesitatingly, I heard it down at Shaddett this afternoon. Yes, I heard it. Answered Mrs. Gamble coldly. Lorely Johnson was here this evening and said so. Spence was in at Morton's store while I was there. James Gamble faltered between nervous swallows of tea. I heard him telling Tom Keith about Flory. He said they had much hopes of her. He seemed awful downhearted over it. His wife made no reply. Her face was emotionless and her cold, grey eyes gazed unblinkingly at the light. James Gamble moved his chair about restlessly. They do say overshadowed way. I heard Tom Keith and Bob Sharp talking of it when they didn't know I was around. That Spence and Jesse ain't very well off this winter. It took most of Spence's wages to pay the doctor's bills for that sick spell of Jesse's in the summer. Well, it just amounted to this. They appeared to think that Spence's folks didn't have enough to eat or enough to warm themselves with. I suppose, said Mrs. Gamble, in a hard, dry voice. If you hear that about any stranger, you take them a load of stuff. I suppose you could do as much for Spence's folks. It ain't the same thing, said her husband huskily. And Spence wouldn't take it if I did. You know that, Melly. He's too proud to take for charity what is his by right. He looked peaked and miserable enough himself. And he'd a bad cough, too. It just seemed to rack him in pieces like a sudden change swept over Amelia Gamble's face. Quite marvelous in the transformation it wrought. The hard lines seemed to melt away, the mouth softened. A whole flood of repressed mother love glorified her cold gray eyes. She bent forward insistently. Did you tell him to do anything for it? She asked eagerly. Did you recommend that emotion Julius Hackett was taking? I wasn't speaking to him at all, Melly. You know that well enough. He never looked my way. Spence always took cough so hard, said Mrs. Gamble anxiously. And he never would take care of himself. I suppose he's run himself down slaving and slaving. And nothing but sickness to contend with. Perhaps you might go down and see them tomorrow. Suggested her husband timidly. You'd do as much for a stranger, Melly. I don't doubt I would. But you said yourself this isn't the same thing. Jesse Green said once that she hoped neither you nor I would ever darken her door, and she can't complain that we have, or ever will, said his wife defiantly. You don't know for sure whether she ever said such words or not, Melly. It might have been nothing but gossip. And if she did, I daresay she was provoked to it. You said enough about her. I daresay it all went to her ears. You so lately you've begun to take her part, said Mrs. Gamble sarcastically. I wasn't the only one who said things James Gamble. I know you weren't, Melly. You said humbly. Only I kind of think now maybe we were foolish to raise such a row. Of course I ain't sayin' I don't still think it was a big mistake for Spencer to marry a Green. But when he did we might as well have made the best of it. This house is big enough for half a dozen families. Goodness knows. We're left all alone in our old age and it's all because we were cantankerous with Spencer. We were too unreasonable, Melly. It was not often James Gamble dared to speak so plainly to his wife. He expected some biting sarcasm in reply. But Mrs. Gamble made no response. Her husband lighted a candle. Seated himself near the fire and tried to read. She washed and put away the dishes. Then sat down near him and gazed into the glowing fire. Was it true? She wondered uneasily. That Spencer and his wife were not so well off in the matter of food and fuel as were others. Her thoughts traveled remorselessly back over the past as she sat there. Spencer had been her only idolized son. It had been for him that James Gamble and his wife had toiled and economized that his inheritance of land and money might surpass any other in Lawton. Everything they had done was with an eye to Spencer's future benefit. When they had built the new house, Mrs. Gamble had insisted that it should be large and handsome so that when Spencer would bring there a wife, he might bring her to no mean or narrowed home and to think that after all he had married Jesse Green. It was five years ago. James Gamble and his wife had opposed it bitterly. But Spencer Gamble was his mother's son. His obstinacy was fully equal to hers. When she had plainly given him his choice between her and Jesse Green, he had not hesitated. James Gamble had been furious with the temper of a usually meek man roused at last. He told his son that he would disown him if he married Jesse Green. And Spencer Gamble had married her, taken her to a tiny house at Lawton Centre and between him and his parents fell along and unbroken silence. He struggled along somehow and managed to make a living by hiring out in the summer and doing odd jobs in the winter. It was not what Spencer Gamble had been used to, and he felt the difference keenly. Amelia Gamble's heart broke when her son went out from her roof to return no more, but she made no sign. Lawton People said she was the hardest woman they had ever known. She never even looked at Jesse or Spencer when she met them. This cold November evening. It was five months since she had seen her son. For after his marriage he had not even attended Lawton Church. Instead he had gone with Jesse to the little Methodist Church over at Shattuck. And this was another of the grievances of Mrs. Gamble, Sr. There has never been a moment in all the five long lonely years that her heart has not yearned secretly over him, although she never admitted it. Now as she sat over the dying embers she confessed to herself at last that she had been hard and unjust. As her husband said it would have been wiser to have made the best of it. After all, poor as the Greens were, nothing except her poverty and some disreputable relatives could have been urged against Jesse herself. She might have learned to love her for Spencer's sake. The house was big enough for them all. It would have been pleasant to have had Spencer's wife accompany and Spencer's golden-haired little girl playing about the old place.  The fire had gone out and the room was getting very cold. At the next morning's breakfast table, Mrs. Gamble broke a long silence so abruptly that her husband started, James, I'm going to walk down to the center after breakfast and see Spencer's folks. I suppose if some of us has got to knuckle down it's my place to do it. Anyhow, I won't have much peace of mind if I don't go.  I'm sure she won't do anything of the kind, said her husband eagerly. An expression of relief coming out strongly on his thin-pinched features. She'll be glad enough to see you, no doubt. We ought to have done it long ago. Better take a basket along with you, Melly. Maybe if Jesse's had to wait on Flory all by herself, she'll have got behind hand with other things. It was a generous basket than Mrs. Gamble packed, albeit with a grim face. She kept that same grim face on as she walked down the valley road. Snow had come in the night and was still falling softly. The plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples and the barn roofs were like sheets of marble. The spruces stood up along the road feathered over whitely, and every twig on the beaches was outlined in pearl. The faraway hills loomed dimly through the misty veil of snowflakes. To Mrs. Gamble it seemed as if the very cows in the barnyards, blinking their mild eyes at her over the fences, broad-rayed flakes clinging to their sides, knew her errand. The faces she saw looking at her from the windows seemed to wear significant smiles. A neighbor's hearty greeting seemed overcharged with sinister meaning. More than once she was on the point of turning back. Could it be possible that she, Amelia Gamble, was going to knuckle down to Jesse Green, a green from Shaddock at that? Yet she went steadily on till she found herself standing before the door of Spencer Gamble's tiny house at the center. From the windows of a house opposite she saw Larilla Johnson's pale, curious face peering out. In spite of herself Mrs. Gamble smiled. Spurred on by the consciousness of being watched by a Larilla, she rapped sharply at Spencer's door and then stepped back with a vague impulse to run from the spot in spite of a dozen Larillas. Spencer himself, hollow-eyed and unshaven, opened the door. Amazement, incredulity, and alarm chased each other over his haggard face. He was too surprised to speak and stood dumbly in the doorway. Come, Spencer, ain't you going to ask me in? said his mother crisply. I haven't walked all the way down here in the snow for nothing. How is Flory? And Jesse, she brought the last word out with a choke. It broke the back of her pride, but it was a hard blow. Spencer stepped back, embarrassed. Of course. Come in, mother. Jesse, Flory, there well... No. I mean, Mrs. Gamble pushed past him and went in. There was nobody in the neglected kitchen. She stalked to the door of the little bedroom off it and peered in grimly. Jesse Gamble, bending over her child's cot, started with dismay as she saw her mother-in-law. She looked thin and heartbroken. When Spencer Gamble had married her, she had been the prettiest girl in Shattuck. Now the colour was all gone from her long cheeks. Her soft, fairish brown hair was falling loosely on her neck, and her large, wistful brown eyes were filled with fear and sorrow. Something, pride, coldness, disappointment, or whatever it was, gave way in Mrs. Gamble's heart at that moment. She did not say anything, but she held out her arms, and the next moment the younger woman was sobbing in them. It was half an hour before Mrs. Gamble came out to the kitchen, which Spencer was clumsily trying to restore to order.  Jesse's clean tuckered out, Spencer. She's gone to sleep in there, and I'm going to look after Flory. I believe she'll pull through. Dr. Richardson don't know everything. I never had much opinion of him anyway. If you haven't had time to do much cooking, you'll find something eatable in that basket, I dare say. I knew you'd be all sort of upset, so I brought it along. Then I want you to go home and tell Father I won't be back today, and he must cook his own meals. You needn't be afraid to, she added, seeing the doubt on her son's face. He'll be glad to see you again, Spencer. When the doctor came that night, it was to find Flory out of danger. It's all owing to you, Mother, said Jesse humbly. If you hadn't come today, I believe Flory would have died. I was so weak and sick myself I couldn't do right for her. I haven't been real strong since the summer. A month later, the house at the center was locked up and the windows boarded over. Spencer Gamble and his wife and child had moved to the big house on the hill. And of Section 11, The Knuckling Down of Mrs. Gamble, recording by Brenda J. Davis. Section 12 of Uncollected Stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marcia Epic Harris. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 12, The Children's Garden. Come with me and see The Children's Garden, said a dear old lady with lovely silvery puffs of hair and bright dark eyes to me once. I knew that all her own children were long ago grown up and scattered from the Atlantic to the Pacific and even further. But I also knew she had many grandchildren who loved to spend the vacation days at the old homestead. And I went with her, expecting to see perhaps a little plot of ground somewhat untitledly cultivated by childish hands with straggling beds of gay-hewed annals. So that when I really found myself in the garden, I stared. Is this it? I said. Mrs. Dare nodded. Don't dare to tell me you don't think it is a lovely place, she said. It was a lovely place. Had it been in front of the house, one might have called it a lawn, but being where it was, it was just a garden. A lovely, quaint, unworldly old garden where trees and flowers and shrubs grew at their own sweet will in orderly confusion. Just inside the gate, which was arched over by twin lilac trees, were two huge clumps of tiger lilies, like gorgeously bedite sentinels on guard. All around the enclosure, which was about two acres in extent, ran a double row of trees of all kinds, apples, pears, and plums, mixed up with white birches, branching willows, tall poplars, and even a big pine in one corner. Trees were scattered here and there all over it, and between them ran winding paths, bordered by shrubs and old-fashioned perennials, peonies and hollyhocks, foxgloves and brides bouquet, sweet William and bleeding hearts, and a score of others. It was like no garden I had ever seen before. It was quite the sweetest and most delightful, with all the charm and distinction of really lovely old, old things. It's a place one might dream of, or in, I said. It has grown through the years. I hate brand new things, but a children's garden. Mrs. Adair smiled. You expected something different, didn't you? But this is really my children's garden. Let us sit down, and I will tell you about it. We found an old stone bench under a couple of big willows, where lilies of the valley crept about our feet with their spikes of fragrant bells. You are quite right in thinking this is a garden that has grown, said Mrs. Adair. Forty-eight years ago, my little firstborn son was laid in my arms, and his father said, I've just bought the two-acre lot from more, wifey. We can have it for a garden, and I'll go out and stick a tree down in honor of the air. You see that magnificent willow across from us? That was Frank's birth tree, and the beginning of our garden. It just went on from that. For every baby that came to us, a new tree was planted here. That big apple tree over there is Lama's tree. The rowens on the slope are Alan's. The hedge of cherry trees on the west side were planted by his father on the day Rodney was born. Each of my ten children has a birth tree here. Then, whenever the anniversary of a birthday came round, it was commemorated by a tree. Of course, some of the birthdays were in winter, and we had to wait until spring came to plant the tree. But it was always selected on the day itself. As soon as the children grew old enough, they did their own planting. Little Tom was only three years old when he toddled home from the woods with a pine sapling and put it in the corner there. It was a few inches high. Look at it now. Twice death came to our home and took one of our babies away, but we always remembered their birthdays just the same. When the children one by one grew up and went away to school, they marked their vacation homecomings by some addition to our garden. When they married, we did the same thing. And to this day, whenever they come back to visit the old home, they bring something for the garden in memory of their visit. Charles is a missionary in Japan, you know. He brought and set out those Japanese maples the last time he was home. Many of them bring rare trees and shrubs now, and they are very beautiful. But I think I love best the old-fashioned things which my boys and girls planted and tended here long ago, when they were little lads and lasses and blouses and pinafores. Nowadays, the grandchildren have a share in it too, and every vacation visit leaves its souvenir here. We have never tried to keep up any formula arrangement. It was an unwritten law that anyone who planted anything here should just stick it in where he pleased. We fell into the habit of commemorating our children's successes in this way. For instance, when 10-year-old Teddy carried off the prize for general proficiency in his class, he planted one of those clumps of tire lilies at the gate. And 12 years later, when he graduated from college, later of his class, he came home and planted the other clump. So you see, my dear, this old garden is just our family history, written out in a script of leaf and blossom. Everything in it has some treasured memory attached to it, sweet or sad or merry. Edith planted these lilies of the valley here on the very first day she was able to come to the garden after a long and dangerous illness.  Do you see that big circle of snowball trees over in the center of the garden with the two tall silver poplars behind them?  Next year we hope to have our golden wedding, and something more will be added to our garden. Last year, when our eldest grandson came home with the soldier boys from South Africa, he planted the partiburg tree. You see it? That little maple sapling behind the poplars? The boys ran mostly to trees, you know, and the girls to flowers. When I come here, all the past seems to live again for me. I wouldn't exchange this rambling old garden for the most beautiful lawn in the world, my dear. I shouldn't think you would, I said, why it's sacred, and the whole idea embodied in it is one of the most beautiful I've ever heard of. End of section 12, recording by Marcia Epicarrus. Section 13 of Uncollected Stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marcia Epicarrus. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 13, One Mother's Opinions. The little mother who was serving and the schoolma'am who was curled up in an armchair were talking. The schoolma'am always said she got many a hint from the little mother, which helped her wonderfully in ruling her motley little subjects in the brown schoolhouse. Presently, five-year-old Winnie ran in, bubbling over with excitement about an accident that had befallen her doll. The little mother's sewing had to be laid aside while she listened to Winnie's story, sympathized, and comforted the little maid, and finally saw her run happily off to her play again. How could you stop your work and listen to it all so interestingly when you were in a hurry to finish your sewing? Asked the schoolma'am. I'm sure I wouldn't have had the patience. The little mother smiled. I'm afraid I wouldn't have either, always. The last summer, I learned a lesson one day when I was calling on Mrs. Clifford. You know her daughter, Edith Clifford, that bright, handsome girl who is so clever and ambitious. Mrs. Clifford was talking to me about Edith. She said that Edith never confided in her, never talked to her of her plans and hopes, her failures and successes, as she did to her own girlfriends, or as other girls did to their mothers.  The tears were in her eyes as she spoke. I felt so sorry for her, and yet I couldn't help thinking she was greatly to blame herself for it, although I am sure she would have been much surprised had anyone told her so. For she has always been a most affectionate and self-sacrificing mother. But often, when I was there, when Edith was a tiny girl, I have seen her come to her mother just as Winnie came to me now, eager to tell some little incident or plan, which seemed very trifling to a busy woman, but of great importance in the eyes of a child, Mrs. Clifford would push her away sometimes impatiently, saying, Edith, dear mother is too busy, or there, there, I haven't time to bother now. Edith's face would cloud over, and she would go away with quivering lips. What wonder after repeated repulses?  She had grown up with that impression, and it can never be effaced. I thought of all this while Mrs. Clifford was speaking, and I made a compact with myself never to risk the loss of my child's confidence in like manner. I believe that if Winnie, when she comes to me in her small trials and triumphs now, always finds me ready to listen and sympathize or suggest, she will continue to do so when she grows into young girlhood.  I haven't forgotten how grieved and hurt I used to be when I was a wee mite, and found that grown people took no interest in what seemed so wonderful to me, or what was even worse, laughed at or ridiculed some of my childish thoughts when I tried to express them. Oh, it cut right to the bone and marrow. It is a pity that most folks never seem to realize how sensitive the blossom of a child's confidence is. At the first rude touch, it shrinks and closes, never to reopen. By the way, little mother, what are you doing? Little mother laughed. Something foolish, I daresay, you'll think. You know I made these two print aprons for Lillian to wear to school. They were long, full, high-necked and long-sleeved, very neat and nice, I thought, besides being very serviceable. When Lillian came home from school yesterday, there were tears on her face. When I asked her what the trouble was, she said that the girls in her class had laughed at her aprons and called them baby dresses. So I am taking off the sleeves and cutting down the necks. I suppose many people would think me very foolish indeed, but I don't think I am. Of course, I think a mother should stand firm if a real principal were involved, and I don't believe in humoring mere whims or vanity, either. But neither do I think that a mother ought to inflict unnecessary discomfort on a child. Lillian is very sensitive and would really suffer if she had to go on wearing those aprons at which her little world laughed. This seems very trifling to me, of course. But suppose I myself were compelled to wear a broad-sum garment, no matter how serviceable it might be, which my acquaintance has ridiculed. I know how I would feel. So I didn't try to scold or ridicule Lillian, and I'm fixing over the aprons. I know, nodded the schoolma'am. When I was a little taught, an uncle brought me home a pair of embroidered, deerskin moccasins from the west. My parents made me wear them to school, and I'll never forget how I suffered. Looking back now, I know that the moccasins were really very sweet and pretty, and I wish somebody would give me a pair like them nowadays, but nothing like them had ever been seen in my small world before, and they seemed to me very odd and bizarre. Nobody else wore such things, and I felt as if everybody were looking at my feet.  They both laughed.  I had Teddy's curls cut off today. Oh, little mother, protested the schoolma'am. Why did you do it? I've approved of you right along, but I can't. No, I can't approve of this. His lovely long golden curls? Well, I discovered that his lovely long golden curls were so many thorns in my little son's soul. Oh, I hated to let them go. They did look so sweet in pictures when I combed them out over his velvet suit and lace collar. But poor Ted's heart was broken. He said that the other boys laughed at him and called him girl baby, and offered him curl papers, and he just couldn't stand it. I had a bit of a struggle with myself. Then I thought I had no right to make Ted's life a wilderness of woe just to gratify my maternal vanity.  He isn't half so pretty, but he's a great deal happier. What a wise Teddy to choose you for his little mother, said the schoolma'am with a resigned sigh. End of section 13, recording by Marcia Epicarras. Section 14 of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Karen Austin. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 14, Bright Sains. Once upon a time there were mothers together, and they were telling the bright things their children had said. There was also a listener who listened with interest because these were real speeches of real children and not simply funny column emanations of grown-up brains. Yesterday, said Mrs. Wise, I was giving my little boy a lesson in arithmetic. He is rather dull of figures and addition seems to be a sad, stumbling block to him. Now, Harry, I said, if you had four candies in one hand and five in the other, how many would you have all together? A mouthful promptly answered Harry. That reminds me, said Mrs. Milner, who had once been a schoolteacher, of some answers that my pupils used to give me.  Gladys wanted to know the other day, said Mrs. Campbell, if her kitty had a soul, if so, would he have a little heaven all to himself when he died?  One day she said to me, oh, Aunt Lena, I feel so much gooder here than in town. Why, I feel so good that I say my prayers two or three times through the day. The real humor of children's sayings consist in their earnestness, said Mrs. Hay, laughing. They are always so very solemn. Last summer we spent a fortnight at a farmhouse where they had several of those monstrosities known as curly hens. Just as soon as four-year-old Henrietta caught sight of one of them, she exclaimed, oh, mama, that hen has put on its father's wrong side out. There was another small boy in the second primer class who could not learn to spell. All his gray matter went into the theory and practice of mischief, apparently. One day I was trying to get him to spell speckled, but he could not get it right at all. At last, after trying every combination of letters you could imagine, besides several you couldn't, he said, well, teacher, I can't spell it, but I know what it means. His impish grin might have warned me, but I was inexperienced and said rashly, well, Arthur, what does it mean? George hoe at space, ma'am. George was celebrated in the school for his freckles. I had to laugh myself and so did all the scholars, but I think George paid Arthur up for his joke at recess. Since we are on the subject, Mrs. Sunderland, I must tell you our latest family joke. The other day a gentleman who gave his name as Mr. Lord called to see Robert. I showed him the parlor and went out to find Robert. As I crossed the hall, my little three-year-old Jack said, Mama, who is in there? Mr. Lord, I responded as I hurried out. Mr. Lord himself told me what happened after that. Jack pattered away to the parlor, pushed open the door softly and tiptoed in, looking at the collar with an expression of mingled awe and curiosity. Mr. Lord held out his hand and said, well, little chap, come here. So Jack saddled up, put one grimy little hand on Mr. Lord's knee and said very reverently, are you God? It took Mr. Lord some seconds to grasp the situation. Then he couldn't help laughing so heartily that I fear poor Jackie's ideas of divinity got a root shock. The tears welled up in his eyes and he ran indignantly away. When I heard the story, I had to laugh too, but it took me a good hour to comfort Jackie and straighten out his theology a bit. After the laugh, which greeted Mrs. Sutherland's story, had subsided, Mrs. Norton said, that makes me think of what Dottie said the other night. She is just three years old too. That seems to be the worst age for visitations of acuteness. I had put her to bed at dusk and said to her, now Dottie, you won't be frightened to go to sleep here alone, will you? Just remember that God is right here with you all the time. All right, responded Dott cheerfully. I went down, but in a few minutes heard her calling me. Going to the foot of the stairs, I asked her what she wanted. Oh mama said a tearful voice.  I said, the minister's wife, I'm going to tell you what one of my Sunday school class said last Sunday. The lesson was on the translation of Elijah and the falling of the mantle on Elisha. Now I said, at the end, what was it Elijah left to Elisha when he went to heaven? At once a tiny maiden of five list out gravely and reverently, his all closed. The mother's meeting broke up at this point and the listener laughed and scribbled in her notebook. End of 14. Section 15 of Uncollected Stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marcia Epic Harris. Uncollected short stories of LM Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Section 15. Margaret's Books. Margaret Hartley put down the letter which she had been reading and looked in a somewhat homesick fashion out through the window of the little log schoolhouse across the prairies that were dull and gray in the late autumn weather. It was the noon hour and Margaret had eaten her dinner out of the little tin pail in which Mrs. Murray always put it up and smiled when she thought how Bert and Patty would laugh to see her. But Bert and Patty and home were far away. The little schoolroom with its shabby desks and tattered maps was very quiet. The younger scholars were playing down by the spring under the willow bluff. In a corner of the room, a group of five girls all of whom were as old as Margaret herself were pouring intently over a paper which Lizzie Ryan and Sue Robertson held between them. The house was broken by a long-drawn sigh of excitement from one of the quintet or a whispered question as to whether they all had finished the page. When Margaret had read and re-read her letter, she found time to wonder in what the big girls were so interested. Generally during noon hour, they lounged about the schoolroom and discussed Lindsay Gossop with a zest which made their teacher half sorry and half contemptuous. The contempt, however, was always checked and remembered that these girls had nothing else to talk about, with so little to broaden or beautify their bare, narrow lives. It was small wonder that this one's marriage and that one's beau, this family scandal and that family quarrel filled up their thoughts and conversation. Sometimes Margaret tried to talk with them about books and art and the great events and discoveries of the busy age. The girls listened with an almost pitiful interest but they could not discuss that of which they knew and understood nothing and the result was a rather dismal monologue. They were bright girls too, eager to learn and to make the most of their limited opportunities. There were many more like them in Lindsay who did not come to school and Margaret would have liked to help them but she did not know how. Presently, Margaret got up and went down the aisle to the corner where the girls sat. So absorbed were they in their paper that they did not heed her approach and she stood by Rosetta Carney's side for a few minutes unnoticed. The paper they were reading was a cheap illustrated one. The particular story over which Rosetta and her friends were pouring was entitled Beautiful Dolores' Lovers or The Mystery Midnight Marriage at Haddington Hall and the page was garnished with the picture of a wild-eyed young lady being carried off bodily by a young man with a magnificent moustache. Presumably the villain while a weird old crone exalted in the background. Presently, Rosetta, becoming aware of the teacher's presence looked up with flushed cheeks and over bright eyes.  I declare I can hardly wait for one week to another for it. Oh girls, why would you read such stories said Margaret? They are absolute trash. Surprise and wonder were depicted on her listeners' faces. Perhaps Louise Thompson, the oldest girl and best scholar in the school, understood her teacher's meaning more clearly than the others, for she colored slightly and said in a somewhat resentful tone. We have nothing else to read, Miss Hartley. People here are thankful for any kind of reading matter when winter comes. Reen is ants down east, sends her this paper and she hands it all around. Will there be any harm in these stories? There may be no positive harm in them, said Margaret gently, but they are silly and exaggerated and present very distorted views of life. I don't like to see my girls reading them. Mother reads them too, said Rosetta Carney sullenly, and she thinks they are just splendid. Margaret was silent. She went back to her desk and the girls, after a few doubtful whispers, returned to the history of the lovers, of whom she seemed to have so many, that the greatest mystery was how their historian ever managed to keep track of them all. Louise Thompson alone had lost her interest. That evening she walked home with Margaret and reverted somewhat shamefacily to the noon incident. I suppose, Miss Hartley, you think we are very foolish girls to get so interested in those stories, but they are kind of exciting when you get into them I understand, said Margaret sympathetically, but Louise, I really think it would be better not to read anything at all than to read that trash. It isn't wholesome, but it's so dull here, pleaded Louise. He don't know how dreadful it is in winter, the long evenings with nothing to do. We wouldn't want those papers if we had anything better. That evening, when Margaret was sitting alone in the room, an idea came to her and looked wistfully at her bookcase. It was a big one and well filled with dainty volumes and the choicest bindings. She sat down before them and looked him over, histories and biographies, volumes of poems and essays, books of travel and exploration and science, together with the best fiction of the master storytellers. The bookcase contained the very cream of her down east library. I hate to do it, but I will, she said. The next day was Saturday and Margaret went to town on her wheel. She brought back a bottle of misalige and as much brown paper as she could carry. By night, all the volumes in her bookcase were swathed in stout covers and a blank book with spaces ruled for entry had been added to them. Monday afternoon in school, Margaret made an announcement which created quite a sensation and a ripple of excitement all over Lindsay before night. It was to the effect that she intended to open up a small circulating library with her books and anyone who wished could get a book on Saturday afternoons at her boarding house. The idea was a success from the start. Every Saturday afternoon, there was a crowd of eager applicants at Mrs. Murray's. Not only the girls and boys, but their fathers and mothers no longer found it difficult to talk with her girls. They were all ready and eager to discuss what they had read and ask for explanation concerning things they had not understood. A sort of informal literary club sprang up in Lindsay. Margaret wrote home and Bert and Patty sent up dozens of old magazines and reviews that were new to the Lindsay people. Louise Thompson was a valuable and active assistant and it would have been hard to say which was the more alert and interested. When the spring came and Margaret's thoughts turned homeward, she made another little sacrifice cheerfully. I'm going to leave these books here for the club, she told Louise. They will serve as a nucleus for a good library. When I go home, I will send you papers and magazines regularly. The rest depends on yourselves. Rosetta and I have been talking the matter over, said Louise brightly and we have lots of plans. Next winter, said Margaret, I advise you to form yourselves into a literary society with a constitution. Meet regularly in the schoolhouse for discussion and charge a small membership fee to cover expenses. New ways and ideas will come to you all the time. I think there's no fear of your lapsing back to midnight murders and gruesome mysteries. No, I think not, said Louise frankly. You know, my brother used to read those stories and he was awful discontented. He grumbled all the time about the dull life here enslaving to no purpose and all that. He wanted to go away to some big city. Well, he doesn't talk like that at all now and he's real well satisfied. He was reading the Oregon Trail last night and he thought it was just splendid. When Louise had gone, Margaret went to her bookcase and looked at the well-read volumes in eloquent gaps with satisfied eyes. I'm so glad I did it, she said. I'm ashamed now to think how hard it was at first. End of section 15 Recording by Marcia Epicaris. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery Section 16 Syriac's Pony A Story of School Days My dear Jack, your letter has gone unanswered for a long time but to tell the truth I haven't felt like writing letters lately. I've been all mixed up. You said in your letter that Burt Sawyer had written you that there had been a bit of a rumpus in school and that Bob Morrison and I had been mixed up in it and you wanted to know all about it. Well, I'll try to tell you although I won't enjoy the telling very much. However, somebody else will be sure to tell you if I don't and maybe get things crooked. So here goes to tell you just what happened. To begin with, when school reopened in September, Syriac Bolt came to school. You don't know Syriac, of course. He is a French-Canadian boy and belongs to that wretched little settlement called Saint Anne about six miles back in the country. You remember we went through it on our wheels last summer and you said you thought it the most poverty-stricken place you'd ever seen. It's just as poor as it looks and so are the people in it. Syriac's family is about the poorest of them all but it seems that Syriac is ambitious in spite of his poverty. He had gone to the little third-rate school at Saint Anne until he had learned all the teachers there could teach him and then he determined to attend Lockport school for a year before trying the entrance examination for the Dayton High School. How we sixth-grade boys howled when we found that Syriac meant to try for the scholarship for which we all meant to compete ourselves. He didn't look as if he could spell C-A-T cat, so Bob Morrison said and so we all thought. It was a big mistake to judge Syriac by his looks as we soon found out. But there is no use talking, Jack, he did look funny. He was a tall, lanky fellow and looked all wrists and ankles for his trousers and coat-sleeves were four inches too short for him and such patches. Patches everywhere and of every colour and size and never a vestige of tie or collar, of course.  Sleepy-looking chap, I thought. But I tell you a fellow would have to get up early to get ahead of that same Syriac. His brains were all right, there wasn't a doubt of that. To be sure he talked English with a fearful accent and when he tried to read Latin he convulsed the class and even Mr. Unsworth had to look the other way. But just give Syriac pen and ink with a fool's cap and accent didn't count there. In the monthly examinations at the end of September Syriac came out ten percent ahead of everyone even of Bob Morrison and your humble servant who used to think themselves the flowers of the flock. It was a pretty stiff dose for us all and especially for Bob and me. He was this Backwoods fellow whom we had despised and made fun of with his patched clothes and fronty accent and work-hardened paws walking off with all our class honors as easy as rolling off a log. We were surprised and mad at the same time.  But mad or not there was no changing the fact that there at the head of Mr. Unsworth's report was the name of Syriac Bout with ninety-eight percent to his credit. It rankled in our minds a bit Bob's and mine and we were just asking for a chance to pay Syriac back in some way. Mean? Yes of course it was mean, dirt mean. I see that now and you'd better believe me I feel ashamed of myself but I was so sore just then after getting beaten in examinations that I was a regular cad. We didn't have to look long for a chance to play a trick on Syriac. There was one ready to hand. Syriac of course couldn't walk six miles to school every morning and then home again at night so he rode on a pony that looked as if it might have come out of the arc as far as age went. We found out that he had worked all haying and harvest with a man over at Swamscot in payment for the nag. It was so old that it was gray in spots and it was blind in one eye and lame in one leg so thin you could count its ribs. Altogether I'll bet a hat, Jack, you never saw such a specimen in your life and we boys tormented the life at a Syriac about his sorry steed. Syriac always took our personal slurs and jokes with perfect good humor but it made him mad when we sneered at Napoleon Bonaparte. That was the pony's name. He was as fond of Knapp as if he had been a beauty and took just as much care of him. When he came to school in the morning Knapp was carefully tethered where he could get grass and water and shade. At recesses Syriac would go and talk to him and at night he mounted him and ambled off up the road as proud as a king. Well Bob and I thought it would be a good joke on Syriac to take old Knapp away and tether him someplace where he couldn't find him when school came out. Syriac would have to trudge home for once and it would give him a jolly good scare that he would have lost. So one day when school went in after the last recess Bob and I hung back a bit and as soon as everybody had disappeared we rushed to where Knapp was tied. Bob untied his rope and led him up a lane in the woods for about a quarter of a mile coming out where that little bridge crosses the Lockport Millbrook on Simon Crossway's land. You've been there Jack on trouting expeditions Bob tied old Knapp good and solid to a birch tree and we left him there, nibbling peacefully at the grass. Knapp was always eating but it never seemed to fatten him any poor old fellow. We hurried back to school then and slipped in unnoticed while Mr. Unsworth was hearing the junior botany. When school came out Syriac shambled off to Knapp's usual haunt but of course no Knapp was to be found. Wasn't Syriac in us? Do. Not that he made a fuss you know that wasn't Syriac's way but anyone could see that he felt worried. He hunted around everywhere near but he didn't find Knapp and finally he started to walk home. Some of the boys told him that Knapp must have got loose and gone home and Syriac looked as if he were trying to believe it but couldn't.  Bob and I hung around until all the other chaps had gone home. Then we started intending to bring Knapp back and tie him up in the old spot. Wouldn't Syriac look bewildered when he came and saw him in the morning? He will worry all night about him when he finds he isn't home, said Bob. Then we chuckled as if Bob had said something witty but when we got to Crossway's bridge we didn't chuckle. No Jack, my boy, we didn't feel a bit like it. Poor old Knapp had strayed over to the bridge giving his rope a twist around another tree at the edge as he did so and then, owing I suppose to his blind eye he had fallen over the bridge and there he hung dead as a doornail. While Jack I simply can't describe how Bob and I felt so I won't try and we were thoroughly scared too for we thought there'd be an awful fuss and likely is not the mischief to pay all round. There was nothing we could do. Poor old Knapp was dead beyond doubt and we couldn't even haul him up. So the only thing is just to leave him here and cut for home, said Bob. We can't bring Knapp back to life now. I wish we'd never touched him, I said, disconsolently. Oh, so do I, growled Bob, but what good is wishing going to do? He wasn't worth his pasture anyhow. So home we went to the cheapest feeling boys in Lockport.  I was sure we were in for a scrape and I felt sorry for Syriac too. I hope, old fellow, that you'll never be in such a mixed up state of conscience as I was that night. Well, next morning Syriac was at the school bright and early looking for Knapp. He had walked all the way from home. He hunted all the morning and, at last, he found him. Nobody knows how he took it, but when he reappeared at the school he looked awfully cut up. Bob wasn't in school at all. He had left Lockport that morning for a week's visit with some cousins at Swampscot. He'd been invited there for some time, but if it hadn't been for old Knapp's hanging himself, I'll bet Bob would never have gone holidaying in term time. I must say I thought it shabby of Bob to leave me to face the music alone, but I wonder, there wasn't any fuss. It never seemed to enter into Syriac's head to blame any of the schoolboys for kidnapping his pony. Instead, he declared that it was Leon Poirier who had been hired at Crossways all summer and who had an old grudge against Syriac. Leon had left Lockport that very day to hire with a man ten miles up country, and Syriac believed that he had revenged himself upon Knapp before going. Mr. Unsworth did hold a bit of investigation and asked us all in turn if we had tied Knapp at the bridge. I said no with the rest. It was true enough for Bob had done the tying. But there's no use in talking, Jack. I felt mean, mean, mean. Well, Syriac had no pony to carry him to school now, but the third day after the inquest, as the boys called it, he turned up again looking tired to death, for he had walked the whole way and he wasn't at all strong. That night going home, he got well drenched in a shower and there was no Syriac at school the next morning. Three days later, John Carslake's hired boy, Jerry, brought word from St. Anne that Syriac bought was down with pneumonia. Ammonia, Jerry called it, as a consequence of getting so wet that day, and the doctor didn't think he would live. Bob was back at school by this time, and he just turned as white as a sheet when George Carslake told him the news. I guess I did too. When Bob and I got together, we were as solemn as crows. If Syriac dies, said Bob miserably, it will be our fault, or mine I should say since I was most to blame. As for me, I felt too wretched to say anything. I wouldn't live over those next four days for anything. But at last, we heard that Syriac was getting better. Talk about reprieves to condemned criminals. Bob and I know just how they feel. We got together that day at recess and had a consultation. Now, well, what is to be done? said Bob. Syriac's getting better, but he can't come back to school if he has to walk. That is plain. We've just got to get him another ponient place of nap, that's all, I said. I've been saving up to buy a bicycle, and I've got $15. I'll give that. I'd rather have a clear content again than all the bicycles in the world. So would I, agreed Bob. Well, I haven't any money, but I think I know a way to get some. Next day, Bob turned up with $20. He looked glum and triumphant by turns. How did you make it out, Bob? I asked. Sold Rex, answered Bob briefly. He didn't say another word, and I didn't either. I knew what a sacrifice Bob had made. Rex was the very apple of his eye. He was a beautiful Gordon-Setter pup that Bob's Uncle Henry had given him, and every boy in Lockport had envied Bob that dog. We had to hunt around for a couple of days before we found a pony for our price, but we finally bought one from Stephen Cook over at White Bay. It was a bit old and slow, the pony, I mean, not Stephen, but he had two good eyes and was worth a dozen naps. Then Bob and I took him over to St. Anne and went to Jerome Boots. Syriac's mother met us at the door. She was a great, big, fat, jolly-looking woman, and she couldn't speak a word of English. Bob and I had quite a time making her understand that we wanted to see Syriac, but we succeeded at last, and she towed us into the little bedroom where he was lying, looking so thin and white, with his big black hollow eyes that I felt chokey. You should have seen his face light up when we went in. How glad he was! And he began to ask questions about the school and Mr. Unsworth and the classwork so fast that we couldn't keep up with him or get a chance to tell him what we came for. But at last his mother jabbered away in French a bit to him, and I suppose she told him he mustn't talk too much about himself, for he got quiet, and then Bob began. He told the whole story, plump and plain, and I helped him out here and there when he got stuck. Syriac listened, with his eyes getting bigger and bigger, and when Bob told him that we had brought another pony for him in Nap's place and asked him to forgive us, he gave a great swallow. That's all right, boys, he said. And it was all he ever did say. He tried to get out something about thanking us, but we stopped him right up and told him that if he could forgive us for one mean trick and for having nearly killed him, it would be for us to thank him. But we went to see Syriac often after that, and as soon as he was well enough to come back to school, we sixth grade fellows gave him a rousing reception. Of course the story got out, but nobody said much to Bob and me, not even Mr. Unsworth, although of course it made lots of talk in the school. Syriac is head of the class again, and of course he'll get the Dayton Scholarship. Nobody will grudge it to him, for he is a regular brick, and we all like him, and he can talk English and read Latin quite well now. I shall tell you more general news in my next letter, when I won't have Syriac and his pony so much on my brain. We all miss you in class this winter and wish you were back. Yours fraternally. Will. End of section 16. Section 17. What Became of a Dare A Story for Young Folks It was such a rainy afternoon that Josie and I had to stay in the house. This we disliked very much, for we loved to be out of doors. Josie and I were cousins, and we were both twelve years old. We had never met until this summer when I had come down from my city home to spend my vacation at Uncle Donald's farm. I thought I had never seen a busier place than Morningside with its wide apple orchards, its splendid barns, scented with hay, and the big green beech woods which towered behind them. I thought Josie was lovely too. I admired her bright black eyes, round rosy cheeks, and brisk country ways very much. Of course, she knew a great deal more about farm life in ways than I did and thought me very green. She even made fun of me at times, but always cheerfully acknowledged my ignorance. We never quarreled and by dint of keeping my eyes open and profiting by Josie's instructions when she was in a condescending mood, I soon gathered quite a respectable fund of information concerning the birds, bugs, flowers, and trees at Morningside Farm. Uncle Donald and Aunt Harriet and Josie's elder brother and sister were very indulgent to us, and we were allowed quite as much of our own way as was good for us. The only thing that vexed Uncle Donald seriously was our habit of daring. He had no patience with this at all. Josie had become addicted to the practice at school where it evidently flourished. I was initiated into it on the very day of my arrival at the farm when Josie had taken me out to show me her brood of ducks and dared me to walk the rail of the poultry-yard fence. I did not exactly know the code of daring, but instinct and Josie's mischievous eyes told me that my reputation for spunk was at stake, and that if I failed I would never recover lost ground. So I bravely climbed to the topmost rail, balanced myself, and tried to walk along it. Needless to say I promptly tumbled off, for with the best intentions in the world one cannot walk fence rails without some practice. But the fact that I had not hesitated to attempt the feet was in my favor, and Josie, after having shown her contempt for my feeble effort by mounting the fence and walking erectly down the rail was graciously pleased to state that I would do, and we were fast friends from that time. Seldom a day passed, however, that we did not dare each other to do something. Naturally Josie had the advantage of me, but I never took a dare, no matter what the consequences might be, and they were often unpleasant enough, as, for instance, when Josie dared me to walk through the pigpen yard, while I was doing this in mortal terror, one of the pigs ran at me, and in the Russian scramble which ensued I scratched my hands and ruined my dress on the nails in the fence. As a result, I got a hearty scolding from Aunt Harriet, while poor Josie was punished for daring me by being deprived of pudding for dinner. Now, a rainy day had come, and there could be no picnicking in our playhouse, no picking berries in the pond pasture, no fishing over the bridge. In short, none of our dearly beloved delights. We must be good and quiet, because Aunt Bethia was an invalid and couldn't stand noise. But after dinner, Josie had an inspiration and asked her mother if we might go and play in the garret. Permission, hedged about with sundry warnings and prohibitions, having been given, we scampered joyfully off and climbed the dim, dusty stairs. I had never been in the garret at the side, and its appearance was quite a surprise to me. Nice place, isn't it? Asked Josie, surveying its effect on me with evident satisfaction. It was a nice place, for it was gloriously suggestive of games. It ran the whole length of the big farmhouse. Along the sides were ranged boxes and old trunks, while bunches of herbs, bundles of knitting yarn, and other odd articles were suspended from the beams. At one end the rag room, as it was called, was partitioned off from the rest of the garret. It was full of old clothes, bags of rags, broken furniture, and odds and ends. The kitchen chimney went up through it and was hung around with bundles of soft, fluffy rolls, ready for spinning. What a time we had, to be sure. But after a long place, Belle, we grew tired and sat down on an old trunk to have a talk. This is splendid in time, I said, but it must be awfully dismal at night. Mice, said Josie with a shiver, and spiders, fancy and ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts, I said scornfully. There isn't any such thing. Oh, isn't there? said Josie mysteriously. You don't know, Elma Stanley. Well, did you ever see one? I demanded. Josie had to admit that she never had. But I know someone who did. She added triumphantly. Old Mrs. Jenkins down at the corner saw one night. I heard her tell about it. What was it like? I asked, curiosity getting the better of my skepticism. Said Josie, with a glance around, for the garret was getting dusky. It was all in white, you know, and awful tall and had living coals for eyes. It had so. Mrs. Jenkins said so, and she wouldn't tell a lie, you know. What did the ghost dude Mrs. Jenkins, I asked, with a shiver of conviction, for Josie's last argument had been quite unanswerable. Nothing. It just walked past her and shook a long, bony hand. Mrs. Jenkins said she knew it was a warning, and that she would die inside of nine days. But that was a year ago, and she is alive yet, so that is what the ghost meant. Do you suppose this garret is haunted? They say garrets always are. Nonsense, I said scoffingly. Something has to be done in a place before it can be haunted. Somebody killed or something like that, you know. And anyway, there's no such things as ghosts. It is easy to talk like that, said Josie Sageley. But I don't believe that you would stay in this garret alone at night. I wouldn't mind a bit, I declared rashly. Then I dare you to do it, cried Josie maliciously.  Then I saw where my boasting had led me. I was between two fires. On one hand was the prospect of spending a night in the garret. On the other was the certainty that Josie would never let me hear the last of it if I failed to make good my words. Terrible as was the former alternative. It was less so than the latter. And I said, trying to speak as boldly as possible. I'll do it, Josie Bell, and I'm not afraid to either. Josie looked at me with a trace of reluctant admiration. The mice will run over you. You know you're scared to death of mice. And perhaps you will see a ghost. I wouldn't be you for anything, Elma Stanley. What will I sleep on? I asked. Trying to turn the conversation. In the word of Josie's, I found my miserable courage ebbing away. There's an old feather-bed in the rag-room, said Josie. We'll drag it out here, and you can bring up your share of the bed clothes on a pillow. Of course, we mustn't let on a word to the others, or they won't let you do it. You'll come crawling down again in mortal terror, I know. I won't, then. I said stoutly, you'll see. Come down to tea now. It's getting dark here already. Josie and I slipped away to our room quite unnoticed, for Amp Thea was having one of her spells, and everybody who was not in her room was in the kitchen getting up a roaring fire to heat water. It's a splendid chance for you to get up to the garret without being seen, said Josie. You look awfully scared, Elma. I had no doubt that I did, but I resented Josie's saying so. At least I had no thought of backing out. You must help me carry up the clothes, I said. I don't, returned Josie promptly. Couldn't pay me to set a foot up there at this hour of the night. Something might grab me coming down the stairs. I'll tell you what I will do, though. I'll hold the candle at the foot for you to see your way up. It was no use to coax Josie, so I began to mount the stairs, carrying my pillow and dragging a sheet and spread. When I reached the top and saw the long desolate room before me, I almost faltered. But a glimpse of Josie's malicious face guided me. Good night, I called out, brave. Good night.  Then the little glimmer of light vanished. The stair door was shut and I was alone. A pale stream of moonlight fell through the gable window down the center of the long, ghostly room. But all along the walls was shadow and the things hanging from the beams assumed weird, grotesque shapes in the dim light. I do not know how I managed to creep along the floor to my bed, glancing fearfully over my shoulder at every step. Just at that moment, if I could have found myself safely out of the garret, I would not have cared if Josie had taunted me all of my life. When I was once snuggled down under my quilt, things were not so bad. As the minutes passed quickly by and nothing dreadful happened, my courage returned and I ventured to look around. My eyes soon grew accustomed to the dim light and the suspended objects no longer terrified me by their unearthly appearance. After all, the garret by moonlight was not such a very bad place and I began to feel quite brave and confident. To be sure, the wind outside was making a dismal noise about the eaves. I could also hear the rats and mice of Josie's cheerful prophecies scrambling among the boxes and I drew up my toes with an involuntary shiver. I thought of Mrs. Jenkins' ghost, too, the ghost I had ever heard of. But at last I fell sound asleep. I do not know how long I slept, but I began to dream a dreadful dream. I thought the door of the rag room opened and that Mrs. Jenkins' ghost came out and advanced down the moonlight path to my bed. I watched its progress in fascinated horror. Yes, there it was, tall and white, with the eyes of flame and smoke issuing from its mouth and nostrils. Now it had reached my bed. Its bony hand was extended to touch me and I awoke with a shutter and found myself sitting bolt upright. The garret was quiet and untenanted, saved by myself. The ghost of my dreams with blazing eyes and bony hands was gone. But the smell of smoke was not. It was still distinctly there. I turned my eyes to the rag room. Through the cracks of the partition I saw ruddy, flickering gleams of light and smoke was curling through the crevices. I sprang from my bed, rushed to the door and threw it open. To my terrified eyes it seemed as if the room and everything it contained was a mass of flames. The next moment I went screaming down the garret stairs, burst open the door and rushed to Uncle Donald's room. What on earth is the matter? I heard Uncle's sleepy voice exclaiming, the rag room is on fire. I screamed and after that I don't really know what happened. In a few minutes the whole household was aroused and Uncle, Aunt, Jack, Bessie and the hired man were dashing up and down the garret stairs with pales of water. For nearly an hour they fought the fire while Josie and I, bidden to keep out of the way, huddled forlornly in our room. At last the fire was out and we crept into the hall where the others were assembled. That was a close call, said Uncle Donald, wiping the perspiration from his grimy face. A few minutes later would have been too late. Those rolls must have caught from the flues somehow. We had such a fire on in the range for Bephia. I have always said Harriet that it wasn't safe to have those rolls and feathers so close to the flue. But how on earth did you come to discover it, Elma? I... I was sleeping in the garret. I said shame-facedly. Sleeping in the garret? exclaimed Aunt Harriet. Yes, Josie dared me. She said I'd be too scared to stay there and I said I wouldn't. And I fell asleep and woke up and smelled smoke. The idea, said Uncle, trying to speak sternly but failing. Well, I can't scold you now for your prank has certainly been the means of saving the house. But do let this end your nonsense.  I never saw anybody so subdued as Josie was when she crept away to our room. I'll never dare anyone again as long as I live, she declared. Elma Stanley, just suppose that you hadn't wakened up till it was too late and you had been smothered or burnt to death. It would have been all my fault and just think how I should have felt. It was not until the next day that Josie remembered to ask me about the ghost. Did you see it? She said, no, but I dreamed I did. And after all, Joe, no such thing. Well, I suppose there isn't, admitted Josie. But if it wasn't a ghost, Mrs. Jenkins saw what was it. I am sure I don't know, I said, but I expect she dreamed it just as I did. And there the matter rests to this day. End of Section 17 What Became of a Dare A Story for Young Folks Recording by Colleen Arnold Section 18 Of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery This is the LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Mott Montgomery Section 18 Teddy's Mother It was a public holiday and almost everybody in Dalton had gone to the ballgame at Satan between adult and wanderers and the Satan College men. But William Fielding had decided to spend the day in his office. His wife and his two daughters were in Europe. He did not care for football and there was a good deal of extra work to be done. I'll have a good look into these papers in the C&R Railroad case today, he thought as he entered his office. The big building seemed unusually quiet and hushed. He reflected with satisfaction that he was not likely to see the colors. Later in the day he remembered that he had not read the letter which he had found in his box on the way downtown. It was addressed to him in a somewhat tremulous hand and bore the post office stamp of a little village at the other side of the continent. Mother writes a good hand for a woman of her age. He thought as he opened it, the letter was short and written on cheap blue lined paper with frequent lapses spelling and grammar. It told all the simple home news of his neighbors whom he had half forgotten. On the last page the handwriting grew shakier. She was feeling terrible lonesome she wrote. It seemed so long since I've seen you, William. Can you come home for a spell this summer when Marion is in Europe? You haven't been in home for ten years, William, I'm thinking. I do so long to see my dear boy. Mr. Fielding found slightly as he folded the letter up. He drummed his fingers on the desk. His mother's request had come at a peculiarly inconvenient time. To be sure, he had often felt that he ought to go and see her. But he had always been too busy. He could not spare the time. A trip is to be worthwhile at all would take at least two months. I can't possibly go this summer anyhow, he reflected impatiently. Those nine cases are coming on next month. I suppose Morton could attend to them, but I should hardly care to trust them solely to him. Then there's the house to look after while Marion is away. And I've promised to main to spend my vacation hunting silver tips in the mountain with him. Mother must wait until next summer. I'll write her just how it is, she'll understand. Mother was always a famous hand to understand a fellow. But he did not feel altogether satisfied as he began his letter. He determined to write a good, long, newsy letter by way of a salve to his conscience, remembering with some shame the hasty scrolls he had fallen into the habit of sending her. A wrap at the door interrupted him. Come in, he called impatiently, wondering who it could be. The figure that appeared in the doorway was quaint enough to provoke a smile.  Under a very old fashion bonnet of quilted black satin, her silvery hair was twisted down over her years in a fashion which Mr. Fielding remembered seeing old ladies in his boyhood.   She flashed a quick glance over the room. Oh, in Teddy here? She faltered, disappointedly. Teddy! Mr. Fielding remembered that young Wynton, the clever young lawyer next door was called Teddy and his friends. This was probably his mother. He knew that Wynton belonged in the country. He rose and offered the little lady a chair. If you mean Mr. Wynton, his office is next door, but I'm afraid you won't find him there either. I think he has gone to the football match at Satan. This is a public holiday, you know? No, I didn't know, sir. There was a tremor in her voice and her lips quivered suddenly. If I had known it, I wouldn't have come. Do you know when Teddy will be back? Not before night, I'm afraid, Mrs. Wynton. The game won't be over until late in the afternoon, and I believe there is to be a banquet in the evening. And I must go home on the afternoon train. I won't see Teddy at all. Well, I suppose it serves me right for not sending him word I was coming. Ted always likes me to send him word, so he can meet me at the train and look after me. But I thought I'd just like to surprise him, and anyhow, I took the notion sudden like this morning. And I brought him a basket of jelly tarts. Ted is so fond of jelly tarts and his posy. Ted likes flowers. Maybe you'd like to keep him, sir. Does in no use lugging them back? They'd only fade. She gave a little joke of disappointment in spite of her efforts to suppress it. Mr. Fielding felt as uncomfortable as if he had been irresponsible. He got up briskly and took the flowers. Thank you, Mrs. Menhem. Your sweet piece are beautiful and remind me of those which used to grow in my mother's garden away down east. I'm not so fortunate as Ted. My mother is too far away to drop in and see me. I guess she wishes she could often enough. She must miss you dreadful, said his visitor simply. It don't seems if I could live if I didn't see Ted every once in a little while. He knows that and he comes out most every week for all he's so busy. If he can't come, he sends a great long letter just full of fun and jokes. Teddie is an awful good son, sir. Mr. Fielding felt still more uncomfortable as he hunted out a glass for his sweet piece. Perhaps the contrast between his conduct and Ted's came home to him sharply. The little lady who was evidently fond of talking went on. As I came along on the train, I was just thinking what good times we'd have today. Last time he was out, Teddie promised me a drive in the park next time I came out. I'm real disappointed, but it's all my own fault. I should have remembered it was a holiday. The gentle little voice ended in a sigh. The lawyer noticed that he had looked very tired. Under the impulse of a sudden idea, he said, Mrs. Wintem, I think you must let me act as Ted's proxy today. You will be my little mother and I'll give you as good a time as possible. You shall have your drive in the park. Mrs. Wintem looked at him doubtfully yet eagerly. Oh, sir. You but you're busy. No, I'm not or I oughtn't to be. I'm beginning to think I'm a very unpatriotic citizen pegging away here instead of enjoying my holiday. We will have a splendid time. My name is Fielding and I assure you I'm considered a very respectable person. The first thing is lunch. I know you're hungry and so am I. So come along. Remember I'm to be your son for the day. A pink flush of the light spread over her tiny face.  Oh, I'm real glad to go with you, sir. I don't know anybody here and I always feel kind of bewildered when I haven't had Ted to stick to. May I leave these jelly tarts here? Yes, I'll lock them up in my desk, said Mr. Fielding boorishly. Ted will get them when he comes. She gave herself up to enjoyment with the hand in of a child. Her clear little lap trolled out continually. She chatted to him as she might have done to Ted, telling him all the ins and outs of the farm at home. She did not often take a holiday, she assured him. Her husband was dead and she had run the farm for years. Ted was her only son. Such a good, kind, clever boy. There ain't many like him if I do say myself, she declared proudly. They had lunch together in an uptown restaurant whose blender nearly took her breath away. Then Mr. Fielding telephoned for his own luxurious carriage and the event for their drive in the park. The busy, middle-aged lawyer felt like a boy again. He found himself talking to her of his own mother, describing the little down-east village where he was born and relating some scraps of his school days that made her laugh. That's so much like Ted. Such a boy for mischief as he was. Not bad mischief, though. How proud you might of must be of you and how often she must think of you. It is such a comfort to have a good son who doesn't forget his mother. I'm awful sorry for the poor mothers whose boys kept kind of careless like a neglectful, not writing to them or going to see them as often as they might. When the drive was over he took her to the train. Such a good time as I've had, she said gratefully. Ted himself couldn't have given me a better treat. I think our holiday has been a success, said Mr. Fielding, genially. I know I've enjoyed being Ted's proxy ever so much. Ted always kisses me goodbye, she said archly. Mr. Fielding laughed and went over the little old lady. There, that's one for Ted and here's another for my mother. Goodbye and safe home to you. From the window of the car she beckoned to him as the train started. Them jelly darts, she whispered. I forgot about him. You keep him for yourself. Tittle has such good things at the banquet that he won't want him. When Mr. Fielding went back to his office he saw his half written letter to his mother lying on the desk. He tore it in two and flung it into the wastebasket. Then he sat down and wrote, Dear little mother, your letter came today. This is not an answer to it but merely a note to say I'll answer it in person. I'm going east as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements and you may look for me within a week or so after receiving this. We will have a real good long visit together. With much love, your affectionate son, William Fielding. So much the credit of Ted's mother he said with a smile and now offers some of those tarts. End of section 18. Section number 19 of Uncollected Short Stories of L.M. Montgomery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Starting by Lola Janie of Virginia. Uncollected Short Stories of L.M. Montgomery by Lucy Maude Montgomery The Curtin Island Mystery One evening in mid-September, Ellis Abbey came down to ask me if I would go cranberrying on Lennox Island with him the next day. I needed no coaxing for a burying expedition to Lennox was always good fun. We'll sail over early in the morning take a basket of grub and make a day of it said Ellis. Mother has been at me for a week to get her some cranberries and Thanksgiving will be here in two months and we must have some jelly for our cobbler. I think it well to prepare for the future in due time. Lennox Island was one of several in Ascot Bay. They were all uninhabited and most of them were thickly wooded. Among the latter was Curtin Island which was covered with pine and beech except at its northeast corner where there was a small cranberry bog. It was never visited on this account however as the berries were small and of poor quality. What's that said father who now came out on the porch going cranberry well take care oh Oliver's ghost doesn't catch you. We all laughed at this. Just then old Oliver's ghost was a standing joke along shore. Oliver Snyder a weather beaten old fisherman at the harbor had taken to insisting that Curtin's was haunted. Several nights when he had been out late in his boat he had seen a mysterious light flittering over the cranberry bog or gleaming fitfully among the pines. Nobody else had ever seen the light not even the men who were in the boat with him. But this only the more firmly convinced old Oliver that it was supernatural. A real light would have been seen by everybody that he alone was able to see it argued it not of earth. Old Oliver took it for a sign and brooded over it. He believed that it portended his early death and neither argument nor ridicule could shake his conviction. We're not going to Curtin's said Alice and nobody has been seeing lights on Lennox. Is there anything further about the Richmond burglaries? Ask father turning to go in. Well I heard today that Sheriff Pearson has offered a reward of $200 for information which will lead to their discovery and capture responded Alice. He is at his wit's end. You heard about their breaking into Dan Burrell's store last week and carrying off a lot of plunder. They've robbed Abraham Gallant's smokehouse of several hands. It's a mystery how they can cover up their tracks so completely they must have a rendezvous and loop depots somewhere. In Richmond, most folks seem to believe that they have their headquarters inland somewhere around Cantho and it seems most likely. Ascot Bay was crescent shaped. All buried plains where we lived was on the eastern horn. Directly across the bay from us on the other horn was Richmond a thriving fishing, farming and dairying village. For three months more or less Richmond had been terrorized by mysterious burglaries. Stores, warehouses, cheese factories and farmhouses had been broken in impartially and all kinds of booty carried off. This done looters and loot seem to vanish as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. After father had gone in, Ellis said, Are you going to Coney Academy Kent? I shook my head. Kent, times too hard, I said leconically. Ellis nodded. My case exactly. Well, can't be helped I suppose. So long, I'll meet you at the point in good time, wind and weather permitting. After Ellis had gone home, I sat on the porch until moon rise thinking rather dejectedly over the matter referring to his question. We both wanted to go to Coney Academy. We had passed the matriculation examination in June very credibly. But much to our disappointment there seemed to be no chance for further progress along that line. The morning was fair and clear with a good sailing wind. I met Ellis at the point where we hired Jim Snyder's boat. Old Oliver, his father looked at us gloomily. Steer clear curtains, he said warningly. There's nothing to matter with Lennox as I know on, but curtains. Old Oliver paused and shook his head as if to indicate his belief that all the powers of darkness had taken up their abode on curtains. Ellis and I with a smothered laugh embarked and sailed away. Our trip over was pleasant and uneventful. We anchored in a small cove on the west of Lennox, waited ashore with baskets and buckets and set to work. Lennox was rather peculiar in shape, more like a soup plate than anything else to which I can compare. The rim was high and rocky with a thick girdle of pines around it. The depressed center was the Cranberry Bog. Here a perpetual calm rain blow what winds there might. Consequently Ellis and I did not realize that the wind kept increasing or that it had veered round northeast and we got an unpleasant surprise when at four o'clock we went down to the shore. It was blowing a hurricane out behind the islands. Got to stay here all night commented Ellis briefly. If we were on curtains, I would not mind, I said. It's high and dry and there's better shelter. We can get there said Ellis promptly. It's only a mile over and comparatively calm. Accordingly we sailed across, sheltered from the gale by Bird Island which lay between Curtain and Lennox to our right. We anchored in a cove on the east of Curtains and soon found ourselves on shore. We took refuge in a small tumble down hut which had been formerly used by oyster fishermen but was now almost in ruins. We did not expect to be very comfortable for we were tired, wet and hungry but we made the best we could for our circumstances. Wish we had some matches, I shivered. A fire would fit in very well just now. I wonder if any of old Oliver's spooks will be around tonight said Ellis jokingly. He had scarcely spoken when he started excitedly. By Jove Kent there's a life sure enough where I exclaimed. It's gone now but I'll swear I saw it not a moment ago on the edge of the cranberry bog. Willow the wisp I said carelessly. But I will own that I thought of old Oliver and a disagreeable, crawly sensation traveled up my spine. Didn't look like that more like there it is again. There's someone on the island besides ourselves said Ellis. Come on Kent I don't believe in spooks or ghosts or haunts. I'm going to see who or what it is. We at once ran down the avenue of quarry old pines and skirted the curve of the bog at intervals the light glimmered out before us. Presently as we rounded the scrub pines we saw about ten yards away three men distinctly visible by the light of a small lantern which one of them carried. I was about to hail them when Ellis as if guessing my intention laid his hand on my arm. Easy Kent. Somehow I don't like their looks. Let's follow in silence. Accordingly we dropped somewhat further behind. The men walked swiftly and appeared to be heading for the very heart of the island. They were muffled up in long coats and low pulled hats and as Ellis said they did look rather queer. There was nothing familiar about them. They could not be any of the harbor fishermen as I had first thought. On and on they went never pausing to look behind. We were evidently striking right across the island and the men seemed to know the way well although to me there seemed no trace of track or path. I reflected that if the light were to go out Ellis and I would be in somewhat unpleasant predicament in the heart of Curtin Woods on a pitchy dark night. In about three quarters of an hour we had crossed the island and heard the surf thundering on the reef that stretched out from it in the direction of Richmond. Suddenly the men halted before the largest of five deserted Oysterman's huts that were snugly hidden among the sheltering pines extinguished their lantern and entered. A minute later a pale light gleamed from one small square window. Ellis and I breathless from our tramp for our mysterious quarry had traveled speedily looked at each other in the gloom. Who and what are they I said I don't know said Ellis but I feel sure they are here for no good purpose. They're not fishermen who have taken refuge here from the storm and there's never any oystering in the bay now. I'm going up to look in that window.  Two of them had their backs to us. The face of the third was plain in view and I started. That side golden from over can though way Ellis I muttered great Caesar can these be the Richmond burglars I've been suspecting that ever since we saw them said Ellis but we must have more proof than this careful now this is risky Kent if they catch us I'm afraid we will disappear as mysteriously as Farmer Gowen's hands. Let's steal up and listen under the window one of the pains is out and if you hear sound to indicate suspicion on their part both for the woods at once now tingling with excitement we crept up and crouched down under the window the low voices of the men were quite audible it did not take long to assure us that this was the gang of burglars who had terrorized Richmond they were plotting another raid on Conn Weirison's store at Richmond Center the following night presently Ellis pulled me away and we stealthily retraced our steps to a safe distance and then scrambled down the bank to the shore around which we followed until we regained our hut you may be sure we did not sleep much that night apart from our excitement we had a disagreeable fear that some prowling burglar might become aware of our proximity and make matters unpleasant for us the wind went down during the night and as soon as the first pale dawn light was whitening over the far away purple shores of the bay we get on board our boat and sailed away from Curtin Island with a feeling of relief arriving home we took father into our confidence and then hitched up old best to the buck board and started out for Conn Weirison there to interview the county sheriff that night a well armed posse went to Warrington store and captured the gang red handed later on a good deal of the plunder was found stored in the huts on Curtin Island except perishable articles which they had contrived to dispose of Ellis and I obtained the offered reward and it meant Conn the academy for both of us as for old Oliver it was a great triumph to him that he really had seen lights and a great relief that they were not haunts and consequently abode his approaching dissolution end of section 19


Hello, this is Laptop Media, and today, we will show you how to open the second generation Lenovo V15 and what's inside of it. To access this notebook's internals, you need to undo 11 Philips head screws. Then, pry the bottom panel with a plastic tool and lift it away from the chassis. Please remember, it would be of great help to us if you just hit the like button and subscribe to our channel. That would motivate us to make even more and better videos for you. The first thing you need to remove to take the battery out is the 2.5 inch SATA drive cage. Here, the battery has a capacity of 38 watt hours. It lasted us more than 10 hours of web browsing, or 7 hours and 30 minutes of video playback. In terms of memory, there are either 4 or 8GB of soldered RAM on the motherboard. In addition, you get a single Sodom slot for expansion. Storage wise, there is an M.2 PCI-EX4 slot as well as the 2.5 inch SATA drive bay we mentioned earlier. The cooling comprises a single heat pipe, a heat sink, and a fan of decent size. Thankfully, the VRMs feature a metal heat spreader. If you'd like to see more disassembly videos of the latest notebooks we would highly appreciate if you hit the like button and subscribe to the channel.