The Books: Chronicles of Avonlea – ‘Pa Sloane’s Purchase’ (L.M. Montgomery)

Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:

chroniclesavonlea.gifChronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: “Pa Sloane’s Purchase”.

Lucy Maud Montgomery could write flowery prose with the best of them. Her descriptions of nature – snowy fields, the seashore, flower gardens – are superb. But there are also stories like ‘Pa Sloane’s Purchase’ where NONE of that stuff would be appropriate – because the people themselves are not romantic. Having a sudden intense description of a sunset in the middle of a domestic comedy like ‘Pa Sloane’s Purchase’ would have just been Lucy Maud being self-indulgent. Stories like this one shows me how much she was in control of her own art. Pa and Ma Sloane are taciturn farming people, they have been married for 30 years. Ma Sloane totally bosses Pa, Ma Sloane handles the money, and Pa Sloane works the farm, and pretty much does what Ma Sloane says. Their children are grown. They are doing fine. Pa Sloane doesn’t mind being bossed. He is not a man of resentment. The ONLY thing he resents is that Ma Sloane will not allow him to go to auctions – his favorite thing in the world to do on a Saturday is to go to some farm auction, and make some bids. It is one of the greatest pleasures of his life. But Ma Sloane watches him like a hawk, and nixes any of his attempts to go. She is tight-fisted with their money – and Pa Sloane is a weeeeeee bit more relaxed about financial stuff … but Ma Sloane runs the household. She gets frustrated with Pa Sloane bidding on some broken down piece of equipment with the promise that he will “fix it up” – and then of course, he never does, and the broken down piece of equipment ends up just taking up space in their barn. So … one day – there;s going to be a big auction because a nearby couple had died – within weeks of each other – and all of their belongings were being auctioned off. Pa Sloane, in his quiet passive-aggressive way, got Ma Sloane to agree to let him go – but only if she went with him. At the last minute, some domestic issue comes up – and Pa Sloane gets to go alone. Ma Sloane is a bit in a panic and shouts after his departing buggy, “DON’T BID ON ANYTHING!’ But we’re dealing with a true bidding ADDICT here. To ask him “not to bid” WHILE he is at an auction – is really just too much …

Here’s what happens. It’s a sweet funny story, written in the simple humorous language of a story told round a fire. No frills. Good job, Maud. Look how she gets into Pa Sloane’s little world – and it’s FUNNY – but she respects him, too. She’s not mocking him.


Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery – “Pa Sloane’s Purchase”.

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of the Garland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction had evidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down. The sorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards.

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction a “one-horse affair”. It certainly was very paltry, especially when compared to the big Donaldson auction a month ago, which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one of pneumonia, they left nothing but debts and a little furniture. The house had been a rented one.

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was a very tame affair.

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.

“There’s Marthy Blair with the Garland baby,” said Robert Lawson to Pa. “I’d like to know what’s to become of that poor young one!”

“Ain’t there any of the father’s or mother’s folks to take him?” asked Pa.

“No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Manitoba years ago, and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody’ll have to take the baby, and nobody seems anxious to. I’ve got eight myself, or I’d think about it. He’s a fine little chap.”

Pa, with Ma’s parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not bid on anything, although it will never be known how great was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent. But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.

“There’s that’s all,” said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for the day was very warm for October.

“There’s nothing more unless we sell the baby.”

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair, and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out, “Put him up, Jacob.” The joke found favour, and the call was repeated hilariously.

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha’s arms, and stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small chap with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls, a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He laughed out at the men before him and waved his hands in delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.

“Here’s a baby for sale,” shouted the auctioneer. “A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby, warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar? No, sir, babies don’t come as cheap as that, especially the curly-headed brand.”

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the joke, cried, “Four dollars!”

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son was grown up and married.

“Six,” cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard. John Clarke lived at White Sands, and he and his wife were childless.

That bid of John Clarke’s was Pa’s undoing. Pa Sloane could not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was John Clarke. Everywhere at auctions, John Clarke was wont to bid against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa in everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes. Pa’s fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane; he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everythinge except a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.

“Ten,” he called shrilly.

“Fifteen,” shouted Clarke.

“Twenty,” vociferated Pa.

“Twenty-five,” bellowed Clarke.

“Thirty,” shrieked Pa. He nearly burst a blood-vessel in his shrieking, but he had won. Clarke had turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the baby was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile been keeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms. There had not been such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a long day.

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forrward. The baby was put into his arms; he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he was too dazed to refuse; besides, his heart went out to the child.

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid mutely down.

“I s’pose that part was only a joke,” he said.

“Not a bit of it,” said Robert Lawson. “All the money won’t be too much to pay the debts. There’s a doctor’s bill, and this will just about pay it.”

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod, the baby, and the baby’s meager bundle of clothes. The baby did not trouble him much; it had become well used to strangers in the past two months, and promptly fell asleep on his arm; but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive; at the end of it, he mentally saw Ma Sloane.

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back doorstep as he drove into the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the baby, expressed the last degree of amazement.

“Pa Sloane,” she demanded, “whose is that young one, and where did you get it?”

“I — I — bought it at the auction, Ma,” said Pa feebly. Then he waited for the explosion. None came. This last exploit of Pa’s was too much for Ma.

With a gasp, she snatched the baby from Pa’s arms and ordered him to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen, Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around with chiars so that he couldn’t fall off, and given him a molasses cooky.

“Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain,” she said.

This entry was posted in Books and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.