CHAPTER XXX.
PROPHECIES
“Here’s a letter for you from father,” said Felix, tossing it to me as he came through the orchard gate. We had been picking apples all day, but were taking a mid-afternoon rest around the well, with a cup of its sparkling cold water to refresh us.
I opened the letter rather indifferently, for father, with all his excellent and lovable traits, was but a poor correspondent; his letters were usually very brief and very unimportant.
This letter was brief enough, but it was freighted with a message of weighty import. I sat gazing stupidly at the sheet after I had read it until Felix exclaimed,
“Bev, what’s the matter with you? What’s in that letter?”
“Father is coming home,” I said dazedly. “He is to leave South America in a fortnight and will be here in November to take us back to Toronto.”
Everybody gasped. Sara Ray, of course, began to cry, which aggravated me unreasonably.
“Well,” said Felix, when he got his second wind, “I’ll be awful glad to see father again, but I tell you I don’t like the thought of leaving here.”
I felt exactly the same but, in view of Sara Ray’s tears, admit it I would not; so I sat in grum silence while the other tongues wagged.
“If I were not going away myself I’d feel just terrible,” said the Story Girl. “Even as it is I’m real sorry. I’d like to be able to think of you as all here together when I’m gone, having good times and writing me about them.”
“It’ll be awfully dull when you fellows go,” muttered Dan.
“I’m sure I don’t know what we’re ever going to do here this winter,” said Felicity, with the calmness of despair.
“Thank goodness there are no more fathers to come back,” breathed Cecily with a vicious earnestness that made us all laugh, even in the midst of our dismay.
We worked very half-heartedly the rest of the day, and it was not until we assembled in the orchard in the evening that our spirits recovered something like their wonted level. It was clear and slightly frosty; the sun had declined behind a birch on a distant hill and it seemed a tree with a blazing heart of fire. The great golden willow at the lane gate was laughter-shaken in the wind of evening. Even amid all the changes of our shifting world we could not be hopelessly low-spirited — except Sara Ray, who was often so, and Peter, who was rarely so. But Peter had been sorely vexed in spirit for several days. The time was approaching for the October issue of Our Magazine and he had no genuine fiction ready for it. He had taken so much to heart Felicity’s taunt that his stories were all true that he had determined to have a really-truly false one in the next number. But the difficulty was to get anyone to write it. He had asked the Story Girl to do it, but she refused; then he appealed to me and I shirked. Finally Peter determined to write a story himself.
“It oughtn’t to be any harder than writing a poem and I managed that,” he said dolefully.
He worked at it in the evenings in the granary loft, and the rest of us forebore to question him concerning it, because he evidently disliked talking about his literary efforts. But this evening I had to ask him if he would soon have it ready, as I wanted to make up the paper.
“It’s done,” said Peter, with an air of gloomy triumph. “It don’t amount to much, but anyhow I made it all out of my own head. Not one word of it was ever printed or told before, and nobody can say there was.”
“Then I guess we have all the stuff in and I’ll have Our Magazine ready to read by tomorrow night,” I said.
“I s’pose it will be the last one we’ll have,” sighed Cecily. “We can’t carry it on after you all go, and it has been such fun.”
“Bev will be a real newspaper editor some day,” declared the Story Girl, on whom the spirit of prophecy suddenly descended that night.
She was swinging on the bough of an apple tree, with a crimson shawl wrapped about her head, and her eyes were bright with roguish fire.
“How do you know he will?” asked Felicity.
“Oh, I can tell futures,” answered the Story Girl mysteriously. “I know what’s going to happen to all of you. Shall I tell you?”
“Do, just for the fun of it,” I said. “Then some day we’ll know just how near you came to guessing right. Go on. What else about me?”
“You’ll write books, too, and travel all over the world,” continued the Story Girl. “Felix will be fat to the end of his life, and he will be a grandfather before he is fifty, and he will wear a long black beard.”
“I won’t,” cried Felix disgustedly. “I hate whiskers. Maybe I can’t help the grandfather part, but I CAN help having a beard.”
“You can’t. It’s written in the stars.”
“‘Tain’t. The stars can’t prevent me from shaving.”
“Won’t Grandpa Felix sound awful funny?” reflected Felicity.
“Peter will be a minister,” went on the Story Girl.
“Well, I might be something worse,” remarked Peter, in a not ungratified tone.
“Dan will be a farmer and will marry a girl whose name begins with K and he will have eleven children. And he’ll vote Grit.”
“I won’t,” cried scandalized Dan. “You don’t know a thing about it. Catch ME ever voting Grit! As for the rest of it — I don’t care. Farming’s well enough, though I’d rather be a sailor.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense,” protested Felicity sharply. “What on earth do you want to be a sailor for and be drowned?”
“All sailors aren’t drowned,” said Dan.
“Most of them are. Look at Uncle Stephen.”
“You ain’t sure he was drowned.”
“Well, he disappeared, and that is worse.”
“How do you know? Disappearing might be real easy.”
“It’s not very easy for your family.”
“Hush, let’s hear the rest of the predictions,” said Cecily.
“Felicity,” resumed the Story Girl gravely, “will marry a minister.”
Sara Ray giggled and Felicity blushed. Peter tried hard not to look too self-consciously delighted.
“She will be a perfect housekeeper and will teach a Sunday School class and be very happy all her life.”
“Will her husband be happy?” queried Dan solemnly.
“I guess he’ll be as happy as your wife,” retorted Felicity reddening.
“He’ll be the happiest man in the world,” declared Peter warmly.
“What about me?” asked Sara Ray.
The Story Girl looked rather puzzled. It was so hard to imagine Sara Ray as having any kind of future. Yet Sara was plainly anxious to have her fortune told and must be gratified.
“You’ll be married,” said the Story Girl recklessly, “and you’ll live to be nearly a hundred years old, and go to dozens of funerals and have a great many sick spells. You will learn not to cry after you are seventy; but your husband will never go to church.”
“I’m glad you warned me,” said Sara Ray solemnly, “because now I know I’ll make him promise before I marry him that he will go.”
“He won’t keep the promise,” said the Story Girl, shaking her head. “But it is getting cold and Cecily is coughing. Let us go in.”
“You haven’t told my fortune,” protested Cecily disappointedly.
The Story Girl looked very tenderly at Cecily — at the smooth little brown head, at the soft, shining eyes, at the cheeks that were often over-rosy after slight exertion, at the little sunburned hands that were always busy doing faithful work or quiet kindnesses. A very strange look came over the Story Girl’s face; her eyes grew sad and far-reaching, as if of a verity they pierced beyond the mists of hidden years.
“I couldn’t tell any fortune half good enough for you, dearest,” she said, slipping her arm round Cecily. “You deserve everything good and lovely. But you know I’ve only been in fun — of course I don’t know anything about what’s going to happen to us.”
“Perhaps you know more than you think
for,” said Sara Ray, who seemed much pleased with her fortune and anxious to believe it, despite the husband who wouldn’t go to church.
“But I’d like to be told my fortune, even in fun,” persisted Cecily.
“Everybody you meet will love you as long as you live.” said the Story Girl. “There that’s the very nicest fortune I can tell you, and it will come true whether the others do or not, and now we must go in.”
We went, Cecily still a little disappointed. In later years I often wondered why the Story Girl refused to tell her fortune that night. Did some strange gleam of foreknowledge fall for a moment across her mirth-making? Did she realize in a flash of prescience that there was no earthly future for our sweet Cecily? Not for her were to be the lengthening shadows or the fading garland. The end was to come while the rainbow still sparkled on her wine of life, ere a single petal had fallen from her rose of joy. Long life was before all the others who trysted that night in the old homestead orchard; but Cecily’s maiden feet were never to leave the golden road.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE LAST NUMBER OF OUR MAGAZINE
EDITORIAL
It is with heartfelt regret that we take up our pen to announce that this will be the last number of Our Magazine. We have edited ten numbers of it and it has been successful beyond our expectations. It has to be discontinued by reason of circumstances over which we have no control and not because we have lost interest in it. Everybody has done his or her best for Our Magazine. Prince Edward Island expected everyone to do his and her duty and everyone did it.
Mr. Dan King conducted the etiquette department in a way worthy of the Family Guide itself. He is especially entitled to commendation because he laboured under the disadvantage of having to furnish most of the questions as well as the answers. Miss Felicity King has edited our helpful household department very ably, and Miss Cecily King’s fashion notes were always up to date. The personal column was well looked after by Miss Sara Stanley and the story page has been a marked success under the able management of Mr. Peter Craig, to whose original story in this issue, “The Battle of the Partridge Eggs,” we would call especial attention. The Exciting Adventure series has also been very popular.
And now, in closing, we bid farewell to our staff and thank them one and all for their help and co-operation in the past year. We have enjoyed our work and we trust that they have too. We wish them all happiness and success in years to come, and we hope that the recollection of Our Magazine will not be held least dear among the memories of their childhood.
(SOBS FROM THE GIRLS): “INDEED IT WON’T!”
OBITUARY
On October eighteenth, Patrick Grayfur departed for that bourne whence no traveller returns. He was only a cat, but he had been our faithful friend for a long time and we aren’t ashamed to be sorry for him. There are lots of people who are not as friendly and gentlemanly as Paddy was, and he was a great mouser. We buried all that was mortal of poor Pat in the orchard and we are never going to forget him. We have resolved that whenever the date of his death comes round we’ll bow our heads and pronounce his name at the hour of his funeral. If we are anywhere where we can’t say the name out loud we’ll whisper it.
“Farewell, dearest Paddy, in all the years that are to be We’ll cherish your memory faithfully.”1
MY MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE
My most exciting adventure was the day I fell off Uncle Roger’s loft two years ago. I wasn’t excited until it was all over because I hadn’t time to be. The Story Girl and I were looking for eggs in the loft. It was filled with wheat straw nearly to the roof and it was an awful distance from us to the floor. And wheat straw is so slippery. I made a little spring and the straw slipped from under my feet and there I was going head first down from the loft. It seemed to me I was an awful long time falling, but the Story Girl says I couldn’t have been more than three seconds. But I know that I thought five thoughts and there seemed to be quite a long time between them. The first thing I thought was, what has happened, because I really didn’t know at first, it was so sudden. Then after a spell I thought the answer, I am falling off the loft. And then I thought, what will happen to me when I strike the floor, and after another little spell I thought, I’ll be killed. And then I thought, well, I don’t care. I really wasn’t a bit frightened. I just was quite willing to be killed. If there hadn’t been a big pile of chaff on the barn floor these words would never have been written. But there was and I fell on it and wasn’t a bit hurt, only my hair and mouth and eyes and ears got all full of chaff. The strange part is that I wasn’t a bit frightened when I thought I was going to be killed, but after all the danger was over I was awfully frightened and trembled so the Story Girl had to help me into the house.
FELICITY KING.
THE BATTLE OF THE PARTRIDGE EGGS
Once upon a time there lived about half a mile from a forrest a farmer and his wife and his sons and daughters and a granddaughter. The farmer and his wife loved this little girl very much but she caused them great trouble by running away into the woods and they often spent haf days looking for her. One day she wondered further into the forrest than usual and she begun to be hungry. Then night closed in. She asked a fox where she could get something to eat. The fox told her he knew where there was a partridges nest and a bluejays nest full of eggs. So he led her to the nests and she took five eggs out of each. When the birds came home they missed the eggs and flew into a rage. The bluejay put on his topcoat and was going to the partridge for law when he met the partridge coming to him. They lit up a fire and commenced sining their deeds when they heard a tremendous howl close behind them. They jumped up and put out the fire and were immejutly attacked by five great wolves. The next day the little girl was rambelling through the woods when they saw her and took her prisoner. After she had confessed that she had stole the eggs they told her to raise an army. They would have to fight over the nests of eggs and whoever one would have the eggs. So the partridge raised a great army of all kinds of birds except robins and the little girl got all the robins and foxes and bees and wasps. And best of all the little girl had a gun and plenty of ammunishun. The leader of her army was a wolf. The result of the battle was that all the birds were killed except the partridge and the bluejay and they were taken prisoner and starved to death.
The little girl was then taken prisoner by a witch and cast into a dunjun full of snakes where she died from their bites and people who went through the forrest after that were taken prisoner by her ghost and cast into the same dunjun where they died. About a year after the wood turned into a gold castle and one morning everything had vanished except a piece of a tree.
PETER CRAIG.
(DAN, WITH A WHISTLE:—”Well, I guess nobody can say Peter can’t write fiction after THAT.”
SARA RAY, WIPING AWAY HER TEARS:—”It’s a very interesting story, but it ends SO sadly.”
FELIX:—”What made you call it The Battle of the Partridge Eggs when the bluejay had just as much to do with it?”
PETER, SHORTLY:—”Because it sounded better that way.”
FELICITY:—”Did she eat the eggs raw?”
SARA RAY:—”Poor little thing, I suppose if you’re starving you can’t be very particular.”
CECILY, SIGHING:—”I wish you’d let her go home safe, Peter, and not put her to such a cruel death.”
BEVERLEY:—”I don’t quite understand where the little girl got her gun and ammunition.”
PETER, SUSPECTING THAT HE IS BEING MADE FUN OF:—”If you could write a better story, why didn’t you? I give you the chance.”
THE STORY GIRL, WITH A PRETERNATURALLY SOLEMN FACE:—”You shouldn’t criticize Peter’s story like that. It’s a fairy tale, you know, and anything can happen in a fairy tale.”
FELICITY:—”There isn’t a word about fairies in it!”
CECILY:—”Besides, fairy tales always end nicely and this doesn’t.”
PETER, SULKILY:—”I wanted to punish her for running away from home.”
DAN:—”Well, I guess you did it all right.”
CECILY:—”Oh, well, it was very interesting, and that is all that is really necessary in a story.” )
PERSONALS
Mr. Blair Stanley is visiting friends and relatives in Carlisle. He intends returning to Europe shortly. His daughter, Miss Sara, will accompany him.
Mr. Alan King is expected home from South America next month. His sons will return with him to Toronto. Beverley and Felix have made hosts of friends during their stay in Carlisle and will be much missed in social circles.
The Mission Band of Carlisle Presbyterian Church completed their missionary quilt last week. Miss Cecily King collected the largest sum on her square. Congratulations, Cecily.
Mr. Peter Craig will be residing in Markdale after October and will attend school there this winter. Peter is a good fellow and we all wish him success and prosperity.
Apple picking is almost ended. There was an unusually heavy crop this year. Potatoes, not so good.
HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT
Apple pies are the order of the day.
Eggs are a very good price now. Uncle Roger says it isn’t fair to have to pay as much for a dozen little eggs as a dozen big ones, but they go just as far.
FELICITY KING.
ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT
F-l-t-y. Is it considered good form to eat peppermints in church? Ans.; No, not if a witch gives them to you.
No, F-l-x, we would not call Treasure Island or the Pilgrim’s Progress dime novels.
Yes, P-t-r, when you call on a young lady and her mother offers you a slice of bread and jam it is quite polite for you to accept it.
DAN KING.
FASHION NOTES
Necklaces of roseberries are very much worn now.
It is considered smart to wear your school hat tilted over your left eye.
Bangs are coming in. Em Frewen has them. She went to Summerside for a visit and came back with them. All the girls in school are going to bang their hair as soon as their mothers will let them. But I do not intend to bang mine.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 417