Аня з Авонлеї
XIX. Just a Happy Day
Paul’slittlelow-ceilingedroomwasasoftwhirlofruddylightfromthesunthatwassettingovertheseaandswingingshadowsfromthefirtreesthatgrewclosetothesquare,deep-setwindow.Fromoutthissoftglowandglamorshoneasweet,girlishface,withtendermothereyes,thatwashangingonthewallatthefootofthebed.
“That’smylittlemother,”saidPaulwithlovingpride.“IgotGrandmatohangittherewhereI’dseeitassoonasIopenedmyeyesinthemorning.InevermindnothavingthelightwhenIgotobednow,becauseitjustseemsasifmylittlemotherwasrightherewithme.FatherknewjustwhatIwouldlikeforabirthdaypresent,althoughheneveraskedme.Isn’titwonderfulhowmuchfathersDOknow?”
“Yourmotherwasverylovely,Paul,andyoulookalittlelikeher.Buthereyesandhairaredarkerthanyours.”
“Myeyesarethesamecolorasfather’s,”saidPaul,flyingabouttheroomtoheapallavailablecushionsonthewindowseat,“butfather’shairisgray.Hehaslotsofit,butitisgray.Yousee,fatherisnearlyfifty.That’sripeoldage,isn’tit?Butit’sonlyOUTSIDEhe’sold.INSIDEhe’sjustasyoungasanybody.Now,teacher,pleasesithere;andI’llsitatyourfeet.MayIlaymyheadagainstyourknee?That’sthewaymylittlemotherandIusedtosit.Oh,thisisrealsplendid,Ithink.”
“Now,IwanttohearthosethoughtswhichMaryJoepronouncessoqueer,”saidAnne,pattingthemopofcurlsatherside.Paulneverneededanycoaxingtotellhisthoughts...atleast,tocongenialsouls.
