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    Chapter XXVI

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    Chapter 26
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    CHAPTER XXVI

    The Story Club Is Formed

    Junior Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence
    again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat,
    stale, and unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had
    been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet
    pleasures of those faraway days before the concert? At first, as
    she told Diana, she did not really think she could.

    "I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the
    same again as it was in those olden days," she said mournfully,
    as if referring to a period of at least fifty years back.
    "Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid
    concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why
    Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman.
    It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don't
    believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are
    so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever
    being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may
    grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm
    tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I
    just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again.
    That's one splendid thing about such affairs--it's so lovely to
    look back to them."

    Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old
    groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert
    left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over
    a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at
    the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was
    broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three
    months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's
    bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking
    its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have
    any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that
    the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes
    had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little
    they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody
    Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne
    Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon
    was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May,
    would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter.
    With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss
    Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness.

    The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter,
    with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly
    every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were
    tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all
    their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon
    write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it
    behooved them to be observant.

    "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne
    in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens.
    When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be
    different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it
    doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes
    life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be
    really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able
    to use big words then without being laughed at."

    "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen,"
    said Diana.

    "Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus," said Anne disdainfully.
    "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a
    take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that
    is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make
    uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you
    think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without
    making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all.
    You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like
    Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect.
    Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships
    the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it
    right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal
    being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their
    besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an
    interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last
    Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to
    talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin
    is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving
    very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps
    I'll get on better."

    "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana.
    "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think
    that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen."

    "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly,
    "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because
    it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with
    my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about
    my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago.
    It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a
    rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition.
    I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in
    summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep
    and dreaming pretty dreams."

    "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes,"
    sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the
    one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy
    telling us to write a story out of our own heads!"

    "Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne.

    "It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted
    Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one?
    I suppose you have your composition all done?"

    Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and
    failing miserably.

    "I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called 'The Jealous Rival;
    or In Death Not Divided.' I read it to Marilla and she said it was
    stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine.
    That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just
    cried like a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful
    maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived
    in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other.
    Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and
    duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like
    spun gold and velvety purple eyes."

    "I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana dubiously.

    "Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the
    common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I've found out what an
    alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen.
    You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve."

    "Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" asked Diana,
    who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate.

    "They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then
    Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with
    the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away
    with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he
    carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the
    carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine
    the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby
    Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I
    thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so
    many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall
    pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She
    said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in
    his own name and then said, 'What do you say, darling pet, if we
    get hitched this fall?' And Susan said, 'Yes--no--I don't
    know--let me see'--and there they were, engaged as quick as that.
    But I didn't think that sort of a proposal was a very romantic one,
    so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could. I made
    it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees,
    although Ruby Gillis says it isn't done nowadays. Geraldine
    accepted him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a
    lot of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times and I
    look upon it as my masterpiece. Bertram gave her a diamond ring
    and a ruby necklace and told her they would go to Europe for a
    wedding tour, for he was immensely wealthy. But then, alas,
    shadows began to darken over their path. Cordelia was secretly
    in love with Bertram herself and when Geraldine told her about
    the engagement she was simply furious, especially when she saw
    the necklace and the diamond ring. All her affection for
    Geraldine turned to bitter hate and she vowed that she should
    never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine's friend
    the same as ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge
    over a rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, thinking they were
    alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink with a wild, mocking, 'Ha,
    ha, ha.' But Bertram saw it all and he at once plunged into the
    current, exclaiming, 'I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.'
    But alas, he had forgotten he couldn't swim, and they were both
    drowned, clasped in each other's arms. Their bodies were washed
    ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the one grave and
    their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It's so much more romantic
    to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for Cordelia,
    she went insane with remorse and was shut up in a lunatic asylum.
    I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime."

    "How perfectly lovely!" sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew's
    school of critics. "I don't see how you can make up such
    thrilling things out of your own head, Anne. I wish my
    imagination was as good as yours."

    "It would be if you'd only cultivate it," said Anne cheeringly.
    "I've just thought of a plan, Diana. Let you and me have a story
    club all our own and write stories for practice. I'll help you
    along until you can do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate
    your imagination, you know. Miss Stacy says so. Only we must
    take the right way. I told her about the Haunted Wood, but she
    said we went the wrong way about it in that."

    This was how the story club came into existence. It was limited
    to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include
    Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis and one or two others who felt that
    their imaginations needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in
    it--although Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would make
    it more exciting--and each member had to produce one story a week.

    "It's extremely interesting," Anne told Marilla. "Each girl has
    to read her story out loud and then we talk it over. We are going
    to keep them all sacredly and have them to read to our descendants.
    We each write under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency.
    All the girls do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental.
    She puts too much lovemaking into her stories and you know too much
    is worse than too little. Jane never puts any because she says
    it makes her feel so silly when she had to read it out loud.
    Jane's stories are extremely sensible. Then Diana puts too many
    murders into hers. She says most of the time she doesn't know what
    to do with the people so she kills them off to get rid of them.
    I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but that
    isn't hard for I've millions of ideas."

    "I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet,"
    scoffed Marilla. "You'll get a pack of nonsense into your
    heads and waste time that should be put on your lessons.
    Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse."

    "But we're so careful to put a moral into them all, Marilla,"
    explained Anne. "I insist upon that. All the good people are
    rewarded and all the bad ones are suitably punished. I'm sure
    that must have a wholesome effect. The moral is the great thing.
    Mr. Allan says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. Allan
    and they both agreed that the moral was excellent. Only they laughed
    in the wrong places. I like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby
    almost always cry when I come to the pathetic parts. Diana wrote her
    Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt Josephine wrote back that
    we were to send her some of our stories. So we copied out four of
    our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that
    she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That kind of
    puzzled us because the stories were all very pathetic and almost
    everybody died. But I'm glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our
    club is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allan says that ought
    to be our object in everything. I do really try to make it my
    object but I forget so often when I'm having fun. I hope I shall
    be a little like Mrs. Allan when I grow up. Do you think there is
    any prospect of it, Marilla?"

    "I shouldn't say there was a great deal" was Marilla's
    encouraging answer. "I'm sure Mrs. Allan was never such a
    silly, forgetful little girl as you are."

    "No; but she wasn't always so good as she is now either," said
    Anne seriously. "She told me so herself--that is, she said she
    was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl and was always
    getting into scrapes. I felt so encouraged when I heard that.
    Is it very wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I hear
    that other people have been bad and mischievous? Mrs. Lynde says
    it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always feels shocked when she hears
    of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how small they were.
    Mrs. Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that when he was
    a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt's pantry and she
    never had any respect for that minister again. Now, I wouldn't
    have felt that way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him
    to confess it, and I'd have thought what an encouraging thing it
    would be for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are
    sorry for them to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers
    in spite of it. That's how I'd feel, Marilla."

    "The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, "is that it's
    high time you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour
    longer than you should with all your chattering. Learn to work
    first and talk afterwards."
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