After Many Years

by Carolyn Strom Collins

  Miss Westcott came in then, and we couldn’t say anything more. But from that cut I was done with Peggy. It was dreadfully lonesome, and none of the other girls was really half so nice as Peggy; but I thought she had behaved dreadfully, and I vowed I’d never forgive her. I always walked home with Maggie Brown, and I never spoke to or looked at Peggy.

  Things went on like this until the middle of the winter. The pineapple lace fuss all seemed far away by that time, and I began to wish I hadn’t got so mad over it. After all, perhaps Peggy only meant it as a joke on me for boasting that nobody could ever get that pattern; and although she certainly had been horrid, I had been—a little—horrid, too. But the mischief was done, and how it could be undone I couldn’t see, for I was bound I wouldn’t be the first to try to make up, and Peggy just went by me with her head in the air. The very sight of a crochet hook made me sick.

  One day Mother got a letter from Miss Newell, and everybody in our house went straightway into a red-hot state of excitement. Miss Newell is an old school friend of Mother’s, and she is a famous writer. Her books are splendid, and Peggy and I just revelled in them. Peggy always thought it wonderful that I should have a mother who was Miss Newell’s friend, and I had always promised that if Miss Newell ever came to visit Mother I’d have Peggy over to meet her.

  And now Miss Newell was really coming. She wrote that she would be passing through Bingham on Tuesday, and would drive out to Westford between trains to have tea with mother, for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. This was Monday already, so Miss Newell would be here the next day. I was too excited to eat or study or do a single thing except plead with Mother to let me put my front hair up in curlers that night. Mother doesn’t approve of it as a frequent occurrence, but I felt that I simply could not face Miss Newell with straight hair, for all her heroines have curly hair.

  Then I thought of Peggy and my old promise to her. I was in a regular fix. Of course, Peggy had acted meanly, but a promise is a promise, and Mother had brought us up to keep one whenever we made it. Besides, you couldn’t read one of Miss Newell’s books without discovering what opinion she would have of a girl who would break a promise. I didn’t know what to do, but I felt I must decide that night. It would never do to leave it till the next morning, for that wouldn’t give Peggy a chance to curl her hair. Finally, just at dusk, I marched over to Peggy’s through the fir grove. Peggy saw me coming and she met me at the door, but she didn’t speak.

  “Miss Newell is coming to our place to-morrow afternoon,” I said just as stiffly and politely as anything you ever heard, “and I have come to ask you over because I promised long ago that I would.”

  Peggy caught me by the arm and pulled me right into the hall.

  “O, Alice, do forgive me,” she said. “It’s lovely of you to ask me over to meet Miss Newell. And honestly, Alice, I didn’t take your apron, but—”

  “I never supposed you stole it,” I broke in. “I thought you’d just borrowed it to tease me. But since you say you didn’t, of course it is all right, and—”

  “But it isn’t all right,” interrupted Peggy, looking miserable. “I—I have something to confess. I was bound to show you I could get that pattern, and that night your apron was out I slipped over into your yard and examined the lace until I was sure I could do it. But I never took the apron off the line, and it was there when I left. It—it wasn’t ladylike,” said Peggy, beginning to cry, “and please don’t tell Miss Newell I did it. But you provoked me so, telling Julia I couldn’t get it, and I thought you were real mean not to lend me the pattern.”

  “But you didn’t lend me the pattern of that lace your aunt sent you,” I said reproachfully.

  Peggy opened her eyes wide.

  “But she didn’t send me the pattern,” she said. “She sent me lace and apron and all, and I couldn’t make out how the pattern went, either. I thought you knew that; all the other girls did. I thought you were jealous of my present, because you never said a word about it.”

  Peggy and I just sat down with our arms around each other and explained everything out. O, it was so jolly to be friends with Peggy once more. She came over and stayed all night with me, and we both put our hair in curlers.

  Miss Newell came next day, and we had a real nice time. But I think both Peggy and I were just the least little bit disappointed, although we would never admit it even to each other. Miss Newell was very nice, but she didn’t talk a bit cleverly, and she was short and stout and quite gray. Of course, that wasn’t to be wondered at, really, when you come to think that she was as old as Mother. But I had never thought of Miss Newell being gray, and it was a great shock to me.

  About the pineapple apron? O, yes: a big thaw came in March, and I found it under the lilac bush. It wasn’t hurt a bit, but I couldn’t bear the sight of it, so I put it in the missionary box. I think Peggy put hers in, too, for I never saw her wear it again, and the missionary’s wife wrote to mother saying that she gave the two pineapple aprons as prizes in the Native school. So I suppose they did some good in the world after all.

  Editors’ note: “The Pineapple Apron” was published in the Western Christian Advocate (August 26, 1908), shortly after Montgomery received her first copy of Anne of Green Gables in June 1908. It is listed in the “Unverified Ledger Titles” section of the 1986 bibliography and was found by Carolyn Strom Collins. Nineteen Montgomery stories were published in 1908, including “The Proving of Russell” (in Sabbath-School Visitor) and “A Will, A Way, and A Woman” (in American Agriculturist), both published in August.

  Like most women of her era, L. M. Montgomery was an expert in many kinds of needlework, including crochet, knitting, embroidery, and patchwork. Many references to needlework can be found in Montgomery’s books, stories, and poems. She herself invented a “netted doily” pattern for a centerpiece that was published in Modern Priscilla magazine in April 1903.

  How Bobby Got to the Picnic

  (1909)

  Bobby was lying prone among the lush grasses behind the dairy, crying as if his heart would break. The maple trees over him were whispering softly, and sunbeams flickered down through their boughs to dance over Bobby’s tow-coloured hair and play bo-peep with each other; a robin perched on a bough and twittered an invitation to Bobby to cheer up; and a big, golden bee hummed in the air above him. But Bobby refused to be comforted.

  Now, who was Bobby, and why was he crying behind the dairy on such a lovely, sunshiny summer morning, when everything in the world—boys, birds, and bees—ought to have been as happy as the sunshine?

  Bobby had been Bobby, and nothing else, as long as he could remember. But a year ago he had come from the Orphan’s Home to live with Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, and since then he had been called Bobby Johnson. He was about twelve years old, and he had been happy enough since he had come to the farm. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson meant to “do well” by the boy they had adopted, and certainly as far as material comfort went, Bobby had nothing to complain of. But the Johnsons had never had any children of their own, and it was so long since they had been children themselves that they had forgotten what it was like. So Bobby would have been a rather lonely little fellow if there had not always been so many chores and errands to keep his hands and thoughts occupied.

  Bobby should have been down in the orchard picking currants instead of crying behind the dairy. And after the currants there would be something else. Bobby was willing to work, but who could pick currants with big tears rolling down his face? He must cry out his dreadful disappointment first.

  Another boy came whistling around the dairy presently and stopped in astonishment at the unusual sight of Bobby crying. The newcomer was about Bobby’s age, but he was dressed in a very natty suit of clothes and wore a white collar and tie; his hair was carefully cut, and altogether he did not look like a Butternut Ridge boy.

  “I say, Bob, what on earth is the matter?”

  Bob twisted himself arou
nd until his disconsolate, freckled face, stained with tears, came into sight. He was past caring whether Frank Rexford or anybody else caught him crying. They might call him baby if they would; nothing mattered after his crushing disappointment.

  “It’s the Picnic,” wailed Bob, contriving even in the depths of his despair, to pronounce the word with a capital. “My clothes got b-b-urned up, and I can’t go-o-o.”

  His head went down again and he gave such a big sob that it almost choked him.

  Frank whistled again, and sat down on a convenient stump.

  “Look here, Bob, crying isn’t going to help matters any. Sit up straight and tell me the whole business.”

  Thus adjured, disconsolate Bobby sat up and dashed his fists across his eyes.

  “You don’t know,” he sobbed. “You’ve been to dozens of picnics, and I’ve never been to a single one. And I did want to go to this one awful bad. All the boys of my class are going. And they’re going away up the river in the boat, and going to have swings and ice-cream and fireworks at night—and a splendid time—and now I can’t go.”

  Frank knew all about this picnic. He had come down to Butternut Ridge on the train the night before for the very purpose of attending it, because his Aunt Agnes, who lived next door to the Johnsons, and who was a power in the Sunday School, had invited him. Frank had been spending a month with her in the earlier part of the summer, and this was how he came to know Bobby well. They had been “great chums.”

  “What do you mean by saying your clothes were burned up?” he asked.

  “My good clothes,” said Bobby, sorrowfully. “They were hanging up in the kitchen chamber closet, you know, along with Uncle Hezekiah’s good trousers and Aunt Mary’s Sunday dress and the kitchen pipe goes right up through. This morning Aunt Mary smelled something queer and run up and opened the closet and it was all full of smoke. The things had caught fire from the pipe. They had an awful time to get it put out—and when they did my clothes were all burnt into holes. They ain’t any more good at all—and I haven’t got anything fit to wear to the picnic.”

  Bobby filled up again.

  “It’s too bad, old chap,” said Frank sympathetically, “but you ought to be thankful the house didn’t burn down.”

  “And I am,” said Bobby indignantly, “awful thankful. And I never let on to Aunt Mary how bad I felt. I just was bound I wouldn’t. But when she said at dinner time that I’d have to stay home from the picnic ’cause I hadn’t any clothes to wear I couldn’t stand it. ’Course I knew it before, but when I heard her say it—O, dear!”

  “Well, I’m awful sorry, Bob,” said Frank slowly. “If I’d any more clothes down with me, I’d lend them in a minute. But I haven’t because I’m going right back the next day.”

  “O, it’s just my luck,” said Bobby drearily. “I’ve never been at a picnic in my life, and I’ve been thinking about this all summer and planning such a good time. And I was to carry the flag at the head of the procession, too. Miss Helen picked me ’cause, she said, I was so straight. And I never tasted ice-cream or saw skyrockets.”

  Frank dug his heels uncomfortably into the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he seemed able to say. “I wish you could go, Bob, but I don’t see how it could be managed.”

  “O, it can’t. I know that well enough. If it could, do you s’pose I’d be here crying? No, sir, I’d be busy managing it. Well, I’ve got to go and pick the currants now.”

  Frank walked home in a brown study. He was trying to fight down a sudden idea that had come to him. Picnics, as Bobby had said, were common things in his experience—he had been to four that summer already. But the Butternut Ridge picnic was always a tip-top affair—more fun than a dozen ordinary picnics put together. This one promised to be particularly good, and he had been thinking about it for a week, ever since Aunt Agnes sent him word that it was to take place. It was no use talking, he simply had to go. Of course, he was sorry for Bobby. But there would be another picnic next summer, and Bobby would get to that and forget all about this disappointment.

  Frank thought he had settled the question, but some way it wouldn’t stay settled. He was very silent and preoccupied all the rest of the day. Over and over something kept saying to him: “You have been going to picnics all your life and Bobby has never been to one; he never has any fun. You are a selfish boy, I’m afraid, Frank Rexford.”

  Aunt Agnes wondered what had come over her lively nephew. She had no boys of her own, and Frank was a particular pet of hers. At twilight she said to him: “Frank, you will turn brown for good if you keep on meditating much longer. Of what are you thinking so deeply?”

  Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window.

  “I’ve been trying to make up my mind to do something I don’t want to do, Aunt Agnes,” he said slowly, “but I think I ought to do it. I wouldn’t mind staying in bed all day so much, but I’d hate to miss the picnic.”

  “Stay in bed! Frank, what on earth do you mean?” exclaimed his aunt in bewilderment.

  Thereupon Frank explained matters, and they had a long talk. It ended with Aunt Agnes saying gently: “Well, do just as you like about it, Frank. I shan’t object.”

  The picnickers were all to meet at the wharf the next morning at ten o’clock, and at nine a very disconsolate Bobby was feeding the pigs, pouring great milky streams into the troughs under the apple trees and trying with all his might and main to forget what a glorious day it was for a picnic. Suddenly Frank dashed around the corner, caught Bobby by the shoulder, and whirled him about.

  “Bobby Johnson, do you know what you are going to do to-day? You are going to the picnic. I’m going to lend you my clothes. They’ll fit you all right. You are to come right over to Aunt Agnes’s now and get them on. Hurry up, too; you won’t have any too much time to get dressed and get down to the wharf by ten o’clock.”

  “But what will you do, Frank? Have you another suit?”

  “O, I’m not going after all—changed my mind since last night. Bobby Johnson, why don’t you hurry?”

  “O, I won’t go,” cried Bobby, as the nature of Frank’s sacrifice dawned on him. “You are going to give me your clothes and stay home yourself. O, I’m not so mean as that, Frank.”

  “Look here, Bob, be sensible. Why, I’ve been to four picnics this summer already. If you won’t go to this one I won’t, either—that’s flat. You have just got to go.”

  After a little more argument and persuasion Bobby yielded, tipped the last foaming bucket over the fence, got Mrs. Johnson’s permission, and hurried off with Frank in a high state of excitement. Frank’s trim suit fitted Bobby admirably, and Frank did not have to go to bed after all, for Aunt Agnes had found in the garret an old discarded suit of his, left there after a vacation two years ago. It was badly torn and faded and very tight, but it served the purpose, and Frank stood at the door and watched Bobby and Aunt Agnes drive away with a much lighter heart than he had expected. After all, he didn’t mind missing the picnic very much; Bobby was so happy.

  Frank found the day a pretty long and lonely one. But he read a sea story Aunt Agnes had given him, and ate the lovely lunch she had left, and in the afternoon he took a long nap. And so the day wore away, and at last Aunt Agnes came home.

  “Well, Frank, here we are back. Have you been lonely?”

  “No, Aunty, really not much at all, only since it got dark. Where’s Bob?”

  “He is coming up with the other boys. Frank, if you could have seen that child to-day, you would have felt more than repaid for staying home. I really never saw any one look so happy. I am sure he enjoyed every minute of the time, and he was so careful of your clothes. But he will tell you all about it himself.”

  Presently Bobby came running breathlessly in, and as he got out of Frank’s clothes and into his own patched ones, he gave an animated account of the picnic.

/>   “O, Frank, it was just splendid. At first I felt bad about your staying home, and thought I oughtn’t to have let you. But after a while I just couldn’t think of anything but what was going on. We had a splendid sail, and when we got up to the island we landed and had lovely games, and the procession and all, and I carried the flag. And when it got dark we had the fireworks—O, my! And then we came home. Frank, I’m just awful much obliged to you.”

  “That’s all right,” said Frank cheerily. “I’m glad you had such a good time, Bobby.”

  When tired, happy Bobby had gone home across the dewy fields, Frank turned to his aunt and said: “I’m so glad I did it, Aunt Agnes. If I hadn’t, I’d have been the meanest-feeling boy in Butternut Ridge to-night; and as it is, I’m the happiest.”

  Aunt Agnes smiled and patted Frank’s shoulder tenderly.

  “Picnics by proxy are not bad things sometimes, are they, Frank? I dare say you are the happiest boy in Butternut Ridge to-night, because you have been kind and unselfish; but I am sure Bobby thinks he is. He has had the desire of his heart. I wish you could have seen his eyes shining at the picnic, Frank.”

  Editors’ note: “How Bobby Got to the Picnic” was published in the Western Christian Advocate on September 29, 1909. It is listed in the “Unverified Ledger Titles” section of the 1986 bibliography as “Bobby’s Picnic.” It was found by Carolyn Strom Collins.

  There are similarities in this story to the scene in Anne of Green Gables when Anne was forbidden to go to the Avonlea picnic until she “confessed” to stealing Marilla’s amethyst brooch. Because she had never been to a picnic before and had never tasted ice cream (like Bobby), she finally confessed to something she didn’t do in order to go to the picnic. The rest of the story is in Chapters XIII and XIV (“The Delights of Anticipation” and “Anne’s Confession”) of Anne of Green Gables. “How Bobby Got to the Picnic” was published a year after Anne of Green Gables and about the time Anne of Avonlea was published.