Magic for Marigold by L. M. Montgomery Read Free Book Online

“over-the-bears.”
    Marigold had been down to the gulf shore on the other side of the dreamy dunes once, with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold. They had lingered there until the sunken sun had sucked all the rosy light out of the great blue bowl of the sky and twilight came down over the crash and the white turmoil of the breakers. For the tide was high and the winds were out and the sea was thundering its mighty march of victory. Marigold would have been terrified if she had not had Uncle Klon’s lean brown hand to hold. But with him to take the edge off those terrible thrills it had been all pure rapture.
    Next to the harbor Marigold loved the big spruce wood on the hill—though she had been up there only twice in her life.
    As far back as she could remember that spruce hill had held an irresistible charm for her. She would sit on the steps of Old Grandmother’s room and look up it by the hour so long and so steadily that Young Grandmother would wonder uneasily if the child were just “right.” There had been a half-wit two generations back in the Winthrops.
    The hill was so high. Long ago she had used to think that if she could get up on that hill she could touch the sky. Even yet she thought if she were there and gave a little spring she might land right in heaven. Nothing lived there except rabbits and squirrels—and perhaps de leetle green folk,” of whom Lazarre had told her. But beyond it—ah, beyond it—was the Hidden Land. It seemed to Marigold she had always called it that—always known about it. The beautiful, wonderful Hidden Land. Oh, to see it, just to climb up that hill to the very top and gaze upon it. And yet when Mother asked her one day if she would like a walk up the hill Marigold had shrunk back and exclaimed,
    â€œOh, Mother, the hill is so high. If we got to the top we’d be above everything. I’d rather stay down here with things.”
    Mother had laughed and humored her. But one evening, only two months later, Marigold had daringly done it alone. The lure suddenly proved stronger than the dread. Nobody was around to forbid her or call her back. She walked boldly up the long flight of flat sandstone steps that led right up the middle of the orchard, set into the grass. She paused at the first step to kiss a young daffodil goodnight—for there were daffodils all about that orchard. Away beyond, the loveliest rose-hued clouds were hanging over the spruces. They had caught the reflection of the west, but Marigold thought they shone so because they looked on the Hidden Land—the land she would see in a moment if her courage only held out. She could be brave so long as it was not dark. She must get up the hill—and back—before it was dark. The gallant small figure ran up the steps to the old lichen-covered fence and sagging green gate where seven slim poplars grew. But she did not open it. Somehow she could not go right into that spruce wood. Lazarre had told her a story of that spruce wood—or some other spruce wood. Old Fidèle the caulker had been cutting down a tree there and his axe was dull and he swore, “Devil take me,” he said, “if I don’t t’row dis dam axe in de pond.” “ An de devil took heem. ” Lazarre was dreadfully in earnest.
    â€œDid anyone see it?” asked Marigold, round-eyed.
    â€œNo; but dey see de hoof-prints,” said Lazarre conclusively. “And stomp in de groun’ roun’ de tree. An’ you leesten now—where did Fidèle go if de devil didn’t take heem? Nobody never see heem again roun’ dese parts.”
    So no spruce wood for Marigold. In daylight she never really believed the devil had carried off Fidèle, but one is not so incredulous after the sun goes down. And Marigold did not really want to see the devil, though she thought to herself that it would be int’resting.
    She ran along the fence to the corner of the orchard