Neither was it the
fact that I wrote poetry myself--although not of George
Adoniram's kind--because nobody ever knew that. When I felt it
coming on I shut myself up in my room and wrote it out in a
little blank book I kept locked up. It is nearly full now,
because I have been writing poetry all my life. It is the only
thing I have ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy,
in any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to take
care of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she would think if
she ever found out about that little book. I am convinced she
would send for the doctor post-haste and insist on mustard
plasters while waiting for him.
Nevertheless, I kept on at it, and what with my flowers and my
cats and my magazines and my little book, I was really very happy
and contented. But it DID sting that Adella Gilbert, across the
road, who has a drunken husband, should pity "poor Charlotte"
because nobody had ever wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If I
had thrown myself at a man's head the way Adella Gilbert did at--
but there, there, I must refrain from such thoughts. I must not
be uncharitable.
The Sewing Circle met at Mary Gillespie's on my fortieth
birthday. I have given up talking about my birthdays, although
that little scheme is not much good in Avonlea where everybody
knows your age--or if they make a mistake it is never on the side
of youth.
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