Emily of New Moon

heard it she ran quickly through the orchard and told Teddy whether Cousin Jimmy wanted him or not, because it was only on certain nights that Cousin Jimmy wanted anybody but her. He would never recite his poetry to Ilse or Teddy; but he told them fairy stories, and tales about the old dead-and-gone Murrays in the pond graveyard that were as queer, sometimes, as the fairy stories; and Ilse would recite too, doing better there than she ever did anywhere else; and sometimes Teddy lay sprawled out on the ground beside the big pot and drew pictures by the light of the fire⁠—pictures of Cousin Jimmy stirring the potatoes⁠—pictures of Ilse and Emily dancing hand in hand around it like two small witches, pictures of Mike’s cunning, little, whiskered face peering around the old boulder, pictures of weird, vague faces crowding in the darkness outside their enchanted circle. They had very wonderful evenings there, those four children.

“Oh, don’t you like the world at night, Ilse?” Emily once said rapturously.

Ilse glanced happily around her⁠—poor little neglected Ilse, who found in Emily’s companionship what she had hungered for all her short life and who was, even now, being led by love into something of her rightful heritage.

“Yes,” she said. “And I always believe there is a God when I’m here like this.”

Then the potatoes were done⁠—and Cousin Jimmy gave each of them one before he mixed in the bran; they broke them in pieces on plates of birch-bark, sprinkled them with salt which Emily had cached in a small box under the roots of the biggest spruce, and ate them with gusto. No banquet of gods was ever as delicious as those potatoes. Then finally came Aunt Laura’s kind, silvery voice calling through the frosty dark; Ilse and Teddy scampered homewards; and Emily captured Mike II and shut him up safely for the night in the New Moon doghouse which had held no dog for years, but was still carefully preserved and whitewashed every spring. Emily’s heart would have broken if anything had happened to Mike II.

“Old Kelly,” the tin pedlar, had given him to her. Old Kelly had come round through Blair Water every fortnight from May to November for thirty years, perched on the seat of a bright red pedlar’s wagon and behind a dusty, ambling, red pony of that peculiar gait and appearance pertaining to the ponies of country peddlers⁠—a certain placid, unhasting leanness as of a nag that has encountered troubles of his own and has lived them down by sheer patience and staying power. From the bright red wagon proceeded a certain metallic rumbling and clinking as it bowled along, and two huge nests of tin pans on its flat, rope-encircled roof flashed back the sunlight so dazzlingly that Old Kelly seemed the beaming sun of a little planetary system all his own. A new broom, sticking up aggressively at each of the four corners gave the wagon a resemblance to a triumphal chariot. Emily hankered secretly for a ride in Old Kelly’s wagon. She thought it must be very delightful.

Old Kelly and she were great friends. She liked his red, clean-shaven face under his plug hat, his nice, twinkly, blue eyes, his brush of upstanding, sandy hair, and his comical pursed-up mouth, the shape of which was partly due to nature and partly to much whistling. He always had a little three-cornered paper bag of lemon drops for her, or a candy stick of many colours, which he smuggled into her pocket when Aunt Elizabeth wasn’t looking. And he never forgot to tell her that he supposed she’d soon be thinking of getting married⁠—for Old Kelly thought that the surest way to please a female creature of any age was to tease her about getting married.

One day, instead of candy, he produced a plump grey kitten from the back drawer of his wagon and told her it was for her. Emily received the gift rapturously, but after Old Kelly had rattled and clattered away Aunt Elizabeth told her they did not want any more cats at New Moon.

“Oh, please let me keep it, Aunt Elizabeth,” Emily begged. “It won’t be a bit of bother to you. I have had experience in bringing up cats. And I’m so lonesome for a kitten. Saucy Sal is getting so wild running with the barn cats that I can’t ’sociate with her like I used to do⁠—and she never was nice to cuddle. Please, Aunt Elizabeth.”

Aunt Elizabeth would not and did not please. She was in a very bad humour that day, anyhow⁠—nobody knew just why. In such a mood she was entirely unreasonable. She would not listen to anybody⁠—Laura and Cousin Jimmy had to hold their tongues, and Cousin Jimmy was bidden to take the grey kitten down to the Blair Water and drown it. Emily burst into tears over this cruel command, and this aggravated Aunt Elizabeth still further. She was so cross that Cousin Jimmy dared not smuggle the kitten up to the barn as he had at first planned to do.

“Take that beast down to the pond and throw it in and come back and tell me you’ve done it,” said Elizabeth angrily. “I mean to be obeyed⁠—New Moon is not going to be made a dumping-ground for Old Jock Kelly’s superfluous cats.”

Cousin Jimmy did as he was told and Emily would not eat any dinner. After dinner she stole mournfully away through the old orchard down the pasture to the pond. Just why she went she could not have told, but she felt that go she must. When she reached the bank of the little creek where Lofty John’s brook ran into Blair Water, she heard piteous shrieks; and there, marooned on a tiny islet of sere marsh grass in the creek, was an unhappy little beast, its soaking fur plastered against its sides, shivering and trembling in the wind of the sharp autumnal day. The old oat-bag in which