Аня з Авонлеї
XXIV. A Prophet in His Own Country
ISthatgrassinthehollowgreenorgolden?Itseemstome,Marilla,thatapearlofadaylikethis,whentheblossomsareoutandthewindsdon’tknowwheretoblowfromnextforsheercrazydelightmustbeprettynearasgoodasheaven.”
Marillalookedscandalizedandglancedapprehensivelyaroundtomakesurethetwinswerenotwithinearshot.Theycamearoundthecornerofthehousejustthen.
“Ain’titanawfulnice-smellingevening?”askedDavy,sniffingdelightedlyasheswungahoeinhisgrimyhands.Hehadbeenworkinginhisgarden.ThatspringMarilla,bywayofturningDavy’spassionforrevelinginmudandclayintousefulchannels,hadgivenhimandDoraasmallplotofgroundforagarden.Bothhadeagerlygonetoworkinacharacteristicfashion.Doraplanted,weeded,andwateredcarefully,systematically,anddispassionately.Asaresult,herplotwasalreadygreenwithprim,orderlylittlerowsofvegetablesandannuals.Davy,however,workedwithmorezealthandiscretion;hedugandhoedandrakedandwateredandtransplantedsoenergeticallythathisseedshadnochancefortheirlives.
“Howisyourgardencomingon,Davy-boy?”askedAnne.
“Kindofslow,”saidDavywithasigh.“Idon’tknowwhythethingsdon’tgrowbetter.MiltyBoultersaysImusthaveplantedtheminthedarkofthemoonandthat’sthewholetrouble.Hesaysyoumustneversowseedsorkillporkorcutyourhairordoany‘portantthinginthewrongtimeofthemoon.Isthattrue,Anne?Iwanttoknow.
