Magic for Marigold (1929) by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Author:Lucy Maud Montgomery [Montgomery, Lucy Maud]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-11-26T13:32:56.331000+00:00

3

Came a morning when Grandmother and Mother had to go into Harmony village. Grandmother was getting a new black satin made and Mother had a date with the dentist. They would be away most of the forenoon and Salome had been summoned away by the illness of a relative, but Gwendolen was so good and Marigold so much improved that they did not feel any special anxiety over leaving them alone. But just before they drove away Grandmother said to them,

“Now mind you, don’t either of you stick your head between the bars of the gate.”

Nobody to this day knows why Grandmother said that. Marigold believes it was simply predestination. Nobody ever had stuck her head between the bars of the gate and it had been there for ten years. A substantial gate of slender criss-cross iron bars. No flimsy wire gates for Cloud of Spruce. It had never occurred to Marigold to stick her head between the bars of the gate. Nor did it occur to her now.

But as soon as Grandmother and Mother had disappeared from sight down the road Gwendolen the model, who had been strangely silent all the morning, said deliberately,

“I am going to stick my head through the bars of the gate.”

Marigold couldn’t believe her ears. After what Grandmother had said! The good, so-obedient Gwendolen!

“I’m not going to be bossed by an old woman any longer.”

She marched down the steps and down the walk, followed by the suddenly alarmed Marigold.

“Oh, don’t—don’t, please, Gwennie,” she begged. “I’m sure it isn’t safe—the squares are so small. What if you couldn’t get it out again?”

For answer, Gwendolen stuck her head through one of the oblong spaces between the bars. Pushed her head through to be exact—and it was a tight squeeze.

“There!” she said triumphantly, her mop of curls falling forward over her face and confirming a wild suspicion Marigold had felt at the breakfast-table—that Gwendolen had not washed behind her ears that morning.

“Oh, take it out—please, Gwennie,” begged Marigold.

“I’ll take it out when I please, Miss Prunes-and-prisms. I’m so sick of being good that I’m going to be just as bad as I want to be after this. I don’t care how shocked you will be. You just watch the next thing I do.”

Marigold’s world seemed to spin around her. Before it grew steady again she heard Gwendolen give a frantic little yowl.

“Oh, I can’t get my head out,” she cried. “I can’t—get—my—head—out.”

Nor could she. The thick mop of curls falling forward made just the difference of getting in and getting out. Pull—writhe—twist—squirm as she might, she could not free herself. Marigold, in a panic, climbed over the gate and tried to push the head back—with no results save yelps of anguish from Gwendolen, who, if she were hurt as badly as she sounded, was very badly hurt indeed.

Gwendolen was certainly very uncomfortable. The unnatural position made her back and legs ache frightfully. She declared that the blood was running into her head and she would die. Marigold,

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