Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and
found Marilla and Anne busily engaged in nailing strips
of oilcloth over the broken windows.
“Goodness only knows when we’ll get glass
for them,” said Marilla. “Mr. Barry
went over to Carmody this afternoon but not a pane
could he get for love or money. Lawson and Blair
were cleaned out by the Carmody people by ten o’clock.
Was the storm bad at White Sands, Gilbert?”
“I should say so. I was caught in the school
with all the children and I thought some of them would
go mad with fright. Three of them fainted, and
two girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing
but shriek at the top of his voice the whole time.”
“I only squealed once,” said Davy proudly.
“My garden was all smashed flat,” he continued
mournfully, “but so was Dora’s,”
he added in a tone which indicated that there was
yet balm in Gilead.
Anne came running down from the west gable.
“Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news?
Mr. Levi Boulter’s old house was struck and
burned to the ground. It seems to me that I’m
dreadfully wicked to feel glad over that, when
so much damage has been done. Mr. Boulter says
he believes the A.V.I.S. magicked up that storm on
purpose.”
“Well, one thing is certain,” said Gilbert,
laughing, “‘Observer’ has made Uncle
Abe’s reputation as a weather prophet. ‘Uncle
Abe’s storm’ will go down in local history.
It is a most extraordinary coincidence that it should
have come on the very day we selected. I actually
have a half guilty feeling, as if I really had ‘magicked’
it up. We may as well rejoice over the old house
being removed, for there’s not much to rejoice
over where our young trees are concerned. Not
ten of them have escaped.”
“Ah, well, we’ll just have to plant them
over again next spring,” said Anne philosophically.
“That is one good thing about this world . .
. there are always sure to be more springs.”
One blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle Abe’s
storm, Anne came slowly through the Green Gables yard
from the garden, carrying in her hands two blighted
stalks of white narcissus.
“Look, Marilla,” she said sorrowfully,
holding up the flowers before the eyes of a grim lady,
with her hair coifed in a green gingham apron, who
was going into the house with a plucked chicken, “these
are the only buds the storm spared . . . and even
they are imperfect. I’m so sorry . . .
I wanted some for Matthew’s grave. He was
always so fond of June lilies.”
“I kind of miss them myself,” admitted
Marilla, “though it doesn’t seem right
to lament over them when so many worse things have
happened. . . all the crops destroyed as well as the
fruit.”
“But people have sown their oats over again,”
said Anne comfortingly, “and Mr. Harrison says
he thinks if we have a good summer they will come
out all right though late. And my annuals are
all coming up again . . . but oh, nothing can replace
the June lilies. Poor little Hester Gray will
have none either. I went all the way back to her
garden last night but there wasn’t one.
I’m sure she’ll miss them.”
