ANNE SAYS HER PRAYERS
When Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly:
“Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about
the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I
can’t allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing
fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven’t any use at all for
little girls who aren’t neat.”
“I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn’t think about
my clothes at all,” said Anne. “I’ll fold them nicely to-night. They
always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I’d
forget, I’d be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and
imagine things.”
“You’ll have to remember a little better if you stay here,” admonished
Marilla. “There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and
get into bed.”
“I never say any prayers,” announced Anne.
Marilla looked horrified astonishment.
“Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your
prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don’t you
know who God is, Anne?”
“‘God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being,
wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,’” responded Anne
promptly and glibly.
Marilla looked rather relieved.
“So you do know something then, thank goodness! You’re not quite a
heathen. Where did you learn that?”
“Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole
catechism. I liked it pretty well. There’s something splendid about
some of the words. ‘Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.’ Isn’t that
grand? It has such a roll to it—just like a big organ playing. You
couldn’t quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it,
doesn’t it?”
“We’re not talking about poetry, Anne—we are talking about saying your
prayers. Don’t you know it’s a terrible wicked thing not to say your
prayers every night? I’m afraid you are a very bad little girl.”
“You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,” said
Anne reproachfully. “People who haven’t red hair don’t know what
trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_,
and I’ve never cared about Him since. And anyhow I’d always be too
tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after
twins can’t be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly
think they can?”
Marilla decided that Anne’s religious training must be begun at once.
Plainly there was no time to be lost.
“You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne.”
“Why, of course, if you want me to,” assented Anne cheerfully. “I’d do
anything to oblige you. But you’ll have to tell me what to say for this
once. After I get into bed I’ll imagine out a real nice prayer to say
always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to
think of it.”
“You must kneel down,” said Marilla in embarrassment.
Anne knelt at Marilla’s knee and looked up gravely.
“Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll
tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or
into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up—into
that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness.
And then I’d just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I’m ready. What am I to say?”
Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne
the childish classic, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But she had, as I
have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humour—which is simply
another name for a sense of the fitness of things; and it suddenly
occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed
childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this
freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God’s love,
since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of
human love.
“You’re old enough to pray for yourself, Anne,” she said finally. “Just
thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you
want.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla’s
lap. “Gracious heavenly Father—that’s the way the ministers say it in
church, so I suppose it’s all right in a private prayer, isn’t it?” she
interjected, lifting her head for a moment. “Gracious heavenly Father,
I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining
Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I’m really extremely grateful for
them. And that’s all the blessings I can think of just now to thank
Thee for. As for the things I want, they’re so numerous that it would
take a great deal of time to name them all, so I will only mention the
two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let
me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain,
“Yours respectfully,
“Anne Shirley.
“There, did I do it all right?” she asked eagerly, getting up. “I could
have made it much more flowery if I’d had a little more time to think
it over.”
Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering
that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part
of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She
tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a
prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when
Anne called her back.
“I’ve just thought of it now. I should have said ‘Amen’ in place of
‘yours respectfully,’ shouldn’t I?—the way the ministers do. I’d
forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way,
so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?”
“I—I don’t suppose it will,” said Marilla. “Go to sleep now like a good
child. Good night.”
“I can say good night to-night with a clear conscience,” said Anne,
cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows.
Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table,
and glared at Matthew.
“Matthew Cuthbert, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and
taught her something. She’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you
believe that she never said a prayer in her life till to-night? I’ll
send to the manse to-morrow and borrow the Peep of Day series, that’s
what I’ll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can
get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my
hands full. Well, well, we can’t get through this world without our
share of trouble. I’ve had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time
has come at last and I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of it.”