PAT OF SILVER BUSH & MISTRESS PAT (Complete Series). Люси Мод Монтгомери
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she convoyed him into the kitchen. “And Judy’s made one of her applecakes for dessert. They’re delicious. Judy, this is Jingle … and McGinty.”
The Silver Bush family accepted Jingle calmly … Judy had probably warned them all. Dad gravely asked him if he would have white or dark meat and mother asked him if he took cream and sugar. You could always depend on father and mother, Pat felt. Even Winnie was lovely and made him take a second helping of applecake. What a family!
As for McGinty, Judy had set a big platter of meat and bones for him on the cellar hatch.
“Go to it, Mister Dog,” she told him. “I’ll warrant it’s a long day since ye saw the like av that at Maria Gordon’s.”
After dinner Jingle said shyly,
“Listen … I saw some lovely rice lilies in our back field across the brook yesterday. Let’s go and get some.”
Pat had always longed to explore the brook that ran between Silver Bush and the old Adams place for a field’s length and then branched across Adams territory. None of the Silver Bush children had ever been allowed to cross the boundary line. It was well known that old Mr. Adams wouldn’t “have young ones stravaging over his fields.”
“Do you think your uncle will mind?” asked Pat.
It turned out that neither uncle nor aunt was home. They had gone to spend Labour Day with friends.
“What would you have done for dinner if you hadn’t come here?” exclaimed Pat.
“Oh, they left out some bread and molasses for me,” said Jingle.
Bread and molasses on a holiday! This was skim milk with a vengeance.
“Mind ye don’t poison yerselves wid mushrooms,” warned Judy, handing them a bag of cinnamon buns. “I knew a b’y and girl onct as et a lot av toadstools in the woods by mistake.”
“And I suppose they were never the same again?” said Joe teasingly.
“They’ve been dead iver since, if that’s what ye mane be niver being the same agin,” retorted Judy in a huff.
Once out of sight of the house Jingle’s shyness dropped away from him and Pat found him a delightful companion … so delightful that she had a horrible sense of disloyalty to Sid. She could only square matters by reminding herself that she was just terribly sorry for Jingle, who had no friends.
It was Jingle who proposed that they should name the brook Jordan because it “rolled between.”
“Between our farm and yours,” said Pat delightedly. Here was a pal who liked to name places just as she did.
“And let’s build a bridge of stones over it, so that we can cross easy whenever we want to,” proposed Jingle, who evidently took it for granted that there would be plenty of crossing.
That was fun; and when the bridge was made … well and solidly, for Jingle would tolerate no jerry-building … they had an afternoon of prowling and rambling. They followed Jordan to its source at the very back of the old Adams place by fields that seemed made of sunshine and silence, over fences guarded by gay companies of goldenrod, through woods dappled with shadows, along little twisted paths that never did what you expected them to do. There was no end of lovely kinks and tiny cascades in the brook and the mosses on its banks were emerald and gold.
McGinty was in raptures. To roam like this was the joy of a little dog’s life. He would race madly far ahead of them, then sit on his haunches waiting for them to come up with him, with his little red tongue lolling from his jaws. Pat loved McGinty; she was afraid she loved him better than curly, black Snicklefritz who, when all was said and done, was a one-man dog and a bit snappish with anybody but Joe. McGinty was such a dear little dog … so wistful … so anxious to be loved: with his little white cheeks and his golden-brown back and ears … pointed ears that stuck straight up when he was happy and dropped a bit when he was mournful: and tail all ready to wag whenever any one wanted it to wag.
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In the end they found a beauty spot … a deep, still, woodland pool out of which the brook flowed, fed by a diamond trickle of water over the stones of a little hill. Around it grew lichened spruces and whispering maples, with little “cradle hills” under them; and just beyond a breezy slope with a few mossy, grass-grown sticks scattered here and there, and a bluebird perched on the point of a picket. It was all so lovely that it hurt. Why, Pat wondered, did lovely things so often hurt?
“This is the prettiest spot I’ve ever seen,” cried Pat … “almost” … remembering the Secret Field.
“Isn’t it?” said Jingle happily. “I don’t think any one knows of it. Let’s keep it a secret.”
“Let’s,” agreed Pat.
“It always makes me think of a piece of poetry I learned at school … The Haunted Spring … ever hear it?”
Jingle recited it for her. He must be clever, Pat thought. Even Sid couldn’t recite a long piece of poetry off by heart like that. And some of the lines thrilled her like a chord of music … “gaily in the mountain glen,” … “distant bugles faintly ring.” But what did “wakes the peasants’ evening fears,” mean? What was a peasant? Oh, just a farmer … “wakes the farmer’s evening fears …” no, that was too funny. Better leave it peasant. She and Jingle had one of those chummy laughs that ripen friendship.
They sat on the hill, in the sweet, grass-scented air, and ate their cinnamon buns. Far down over the fields and groves they could see the blue plain of the gulf.
“There’s a fairy diamond,” cried Pat, pointing … that dazzling point of light sometimes seen for a moment in a distant field where a plough has turned up a bit of broken glass.
Jingle taught her how to suck honey out of clover horns. They found five little yellow flowers like stars by a flat lichened old stone and Jingle gloated over them through his absurd glasses. Pat was glad Jingle liked flowers. Hardly any boys did. Joe and Sid thought they were all right … for girls.
McGinty lay with his head on Jingle’s legs and his tail across Pat’s bare knees. And then Jingle took a bit of birch bark from a fallen tree near them and, with the aid of a few timothy stems, made under her very eyes the most wonderful little house … rooms, porch, windows, chimneys, all complete. It was like magic.
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