Читать книгу Pat of Silver Bush - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 11

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Pat tiptoed upstairs, past the old grandfather clock on the landing that wouldn’t go ... hadn’t gone for forty years. The “dead clock” she and Sid called it. But Judy always insisted that it told the right time twice a day. Then down the hall to her room, with a wistful glance at the close-shut spare-room door as she passed it ... the Poet’s room, as it was called, because once a poet who had been a guest at Silver Bush had slept there for a night. Pat had a firm belief that if you could only open the door of any shut room quickly enough you would catch all the furniture in strange situations. The chairs crowded together talking, the table lifting its white muslin skirts to show its pink sateen petticoat, the fire shovel and tongs dancing a fandango by themselves. But then you never could. Some sound always warned them and they were back in their places as demure as you please.

Pat said her prayers ... Now I Lay me, and the Lord’s Prayer, and then her own prayer. This was always the most interesting part because she made it up herself. She could not understand people who didn’t like to pray. May Binnie, now. May had told her last Sunday in Sunday School that she never prayed unless she was scared about something. Fancy that!

Pat prayed for everybody in the family and for Judy Plum and Uncle Tom and Aunt Edith and Aunt Barbara ... and for Sailor Uncle Horace at sea ... and everybody else’s sailor uncle at sea ... and all the cats and Gentleman Tom and Joe’s dog ... “little black Snicklefritz with his curly tail,” so that God wouldn’t get mixed up between Joe’s dog and Uncle Tom’s dog who was big and black with a straight tail ... and any fairies that might be hanging round and any poor ghosts that might be sitting on the tombstones ... and for Silver Bush itself ... dear Silver Bush.

“Please keep it always the same, dear God,” begged Pat, “and don’t let any more trees blow down.”

Pat rose from her knees and stood there a bit rebelliously. Surely she had prayed for everybody and everything she could really be expected to pray for. Of course on stormy nights she always prayed for people who might be out in the storm. But this was a lovely spring night.

Finally she plumped down on her knees again.

“Please, dear God, if there is a baby out there in that parsley bed, keep it warm to-night. Dad says there may be a little frost.”