Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:
Chronicles of Avonlea
To me, this story is a bit of a clunker. I mean, it’s sweet, and all – but it’s a bit too saccharine for me, and also: the plot shows its skeleton way too plainly. It seems to me obvious from the get-go that Old Man Shaw’s girl will NOT have been turned into a snooty city girl after her years away from her father. She seems too sweet and loving for that. So Old Man Shaw being thrown into a tizzy seems too artificial. I don’t know – it doesn’t really work for me (even though I love some of the actual writing in this piece – the bit about the roses especially – the theme of the “rose bush that never blooms – but then one day – spectacularly – it is ALL OVER BLOSSOMS” shows up in Lucy Maud’s writing again and again and again). I also think that the characterization of Mrs. Peter Blewett (who shows up in other stories as well as her novels) is really great observation – the kind of person who is truly UPSET when other people are happy. You know those people? The rain on the parade people? The people who rain on your parade and SMILE as they do so? Because they like to spread misery? That’s a real kind of person, and Lucy Maud nails it.
I know that Lucy Maud had a fierce protective side to her, when it came to Prince Edward Island. I think if she met someone who said, “I don’t know HOW anyone could STAND to live on this remote little island!” – she would write them off forever. That person could have turned out to be Mother Teresa, and Lucy Maud wouldn’t have cared. Either you love PEI – or you are the devil’s spawn, not worth worrying about. So in this story she’s kind of expressing that. Old Man Shaw loves his island, and his little simple cottage – but when he suddenly sees it through the scornful eyes of an outsider – he is horrified. Will his daughter, now that she’s educated and a young lady, be satisfied living here? Will she, the light of his life, scorn him? How will he live?
I mean, I get it – but for me, it just doesn’t work.
Here’s an excerpt where the evil seed is planted in Old Man Shaw’s head. He’s a widow and his daughter has been spirited away to go to a fancy private school on the mainland somewhere – he has not seen her in 3 years. He is busy making preparations for her return, so excited to see her again, so excited to have her back. But then … a mischief-maker ruins his hopes ….
Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea
And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was coming home. She wrote him nothing of her aunt’s pleadings and reproaches and ready, futile tears; she wrote only that she would graduate in June and start for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw went about in a state of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming. As he sat on the bench in the sunshine, with the blue sea sparkling and crinkling down at the foot of the green slope, he reflected with satisfaction that all was in perfect order. There was nothing left to do save count the hours until that beautiful, longed-for day after tomorrow. He gave himself over to a reverie, as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley.
The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those red roses – they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness and joy of living. And besides these, a miracle had happened in Old Man Shaw’s garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had never bloomed, despite all the coaxing they had given it – “the sulky rosebush,” Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had flung the hoarded sweetness of years into plentiful white blossoms, like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy fragrance. It was in honour of Sara’s homecoming – so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad because of it.
He was gloating over Sara’s letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. She told him she had run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara came.
Old Man Shaw shook his head.
“No’m, thank you, ma’am. Everything is attended to. I couldn’t let anyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think, ma’am, she’ll be home the day after tomorrow. I’m just filled clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home again.”
Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled, it foretokened trouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden business elsewhere before the smile could be translated into words. But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years, and had pestered his life out with advice and “neighborly turns”.
Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect on her was to render happiness in other people a personal insult. She resented Old Man Shaw’s beaming delight in his daughter’s return, and she “considered it her duty” to rub the bloom off straightway.
“Do you think Sara’ll be contented in White Sands now?” she asked.
Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.
“Of course she’ll be contented,” he said slowly. “Isn’t it her home? And ain’t I here?”
Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt for such simplicity.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re so sure of it, I suppose. If ’twas my daughter that was coming back to White Sands, after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish folks, and at a swell school, I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace of mind. I’d know perfectly well that she’d look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable.”
“Your daughter might,” said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm than he had supposed he had possessed, “but Blossom won’t.”
Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders.
“Maybe not. It’s to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I’m sure. But I’d be worried if ’twas me. Sary’s been living among fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands to reason she’ll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up in Boston for just a month last winter and she’s never been able to endure White Sands since.”
“Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people,” said Sara’s father, trying to smile.
“And your house, too,” pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. “It’s such a queer, little, old place. What’ll she think of it after her aunt’s? I’ve heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace. I’ll just warn you kindly that Sary’ll probably look down on you, and you might as well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back, seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I’m certain she doesn’t want to, and I don’t blame her either.”
Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were dealing him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs. Blewett’s straggling, ferrety gray orbs.
“If you’ve said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go,” he said passionately. “I’m not going to listen to another such word. Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out of my hearing!”
Mrs. Blewett went, too dumbfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone, Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped and ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom; of course the little gray house where she was born would seem a poor abode after the splendours of her aunt’s home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes. How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten the old house! He went in, and upstairs to Sara’s room. It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she woudl think it a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything that went to make up his uneventful life.
Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisifed even Mrs. Blewett, had she known.
I love your collection of LMM quotes on other authors. I linked you.
Another LMM book lover. :)