up through Lofty John’s bush?”
“Isn’t it our bush?” asked Emily, rather disappointed.
“No, but it ought to be. Fifty years ago Uncle Archibald sold that jog of land to Lofty John’s father — old Mike Sullivan. He built a little house down near the pond and lived there till he quarrelled with Uncle Archibald — which wasn’t long, of course. Then he moved his house across the road — and Lofty John lives there now. Elizabeth has tried to buy the land back from him — she’s offered him far more than it’s worth — but Lofty John won’t sell — just for spite, seeing that he has a good farm of his own and this piece isn’t much good to him. He only pastures a few young cattle on it through the summer, and what was cleared is all growing up with scrub maple. It’s a thorn in Elizabeth’s side and likely to be as long as Lofty John nurses his spite.”
“Why is he called Lofty John?”
“Because he’s a high and lofty fellow. But never mind him. I want to show you round my garden, Emily. It’s mine. Elizabeth bosses the farm; but she lets me run the garden — to make up for pushing me into the well.”
“Did she do that?”
“Yes. She didn’t mean to, of course. We were just children — I was here on a visit — and the men were putting a new hood on the well and cleaning it. It was open — and we were playing tag around it. I made Elizabeth mad — forget what I said—’twasn’t hard to make her mad you understand — and she made to give me a bang on the head. I saw it coming — and stepped back to get out of the way — and down I went, head first. Don’t remember anything more about it. There was nothing but mud at the bottom — but my head struck the stones at the side. I was took up for dead — my head all cut up. Poor Elizabeth was—” Cousin Jimmy shook his head, as if to intimate that it was impossible to describe how or what poor Elizabeth was. “I got about after a while, though — pretty near as good as new. Folks say I’ve never been quite right since — but they only say that because I’m a poet, and because nothing ever worries me. Poets are so scarce in Blair Water folks don’t understand them, and most people worry so much, they think you’re not right if you don’t worry.”
“Won’t you recite some of your poetry to me, Cousin Jimmy?” asked Emily eagerly.
“When the spirit moves me I will. It’s no use to ask me when the spirit don’t move me.”
“But how am I to know when the spirit moves you, Cousin Jimmy?”
“I’ll begin of my own accord to recite my compositions. But I’ll tell you this — the spirit generally moves me when I’m boiling the pigs’ potatoes in the fall. Remember that and be around.”
“Why don’t you write your poetry down?”
“Paper’s too scarce at New Moon. Elizabeth has some pet economies and writing-paper of any kind is one of them.
“But haven’t you any money of your own, Cousin Jimmy?”
“Oh, Elizabeth pays me good wages. But she puts all my money in the bank and just doles out a few dollars to me once in a while. She says I’m not fit to be trusted with money. When I came here to work for her she paid me my wages at the end of the month and I started for Shrewsbury to put it in the bank. Met a tramp on the road — a poor, forlorn creature without a cent. I gave him the money. Why not? I had a good home and a steady job and clothes enough to do me for years. I s’pose it was the foolishest thing I ever did — and the nicest. But Elizabeth never got over it. She’s managed my money ever since. But come you now, and I’ll show you my garden before I have to go and sow turnips.”
The garden was a beautiful place, well worthy Cousin Jimmy’s pride. It seemed like a garden where no frost could wither or rough wind blow — a garden remembering a hundred vanished summers. There was a high hedge of clipped spruce all around it, spaced at intervals by tall Lombardies. The north side was closed in by a thick grove of spruce against which a long row of peonies grew, their great red blossoms splendid against its darkness. One big spruce grew in the centre of the garden and underneath it was a stone bench, made of flat shore stones worn smooth by long polish of wind and wave. In the southeast corner was an enormous clump of lilacs, trimmed into the semblance of one large drooping-boughed tree, gloried over with purple. An old summer-house, covered with vines, filled the southwest corner. And in the northwest corner there was a sundial of grey stone, placed just where the broad red walk that was bordered with striped grass, and picked out with pink conchs, ran off into Lofty John’s bush. Emily had never seen a sundial before and hung over it enraptured.
“Your great-great-grandfather, Hugh Murray, had that brought out from the Old Country,” said Cousin Jimmy. “There isn’t as fine a one in the Maritime Provinces. And Uncle George Murray brought those conchs from the Indies. He was a sea-captain.”
Emily looked about her with delight. The garden was lovely and the house quite splendid to her childish eyes. It had a big front porch with Grecian columns. These were thought very elegant in Blair Water, and went far to justify the Murray pride. A schoolmaster had said they gave the house a classical air. To be sure, the classical effect was just now rather smothered in hop-vines that rioted over the whole porch and hung in pale-green festoons above the rows of potted scarlet geraniums that flanked the steps.
Emily’s heart swelled with pride.
“It’s a noble house,” she said.
“And what about my garden?” demanded Cousin Jimmy jealously.
“It’s fit for a queen,” said Emily, gravely and sincerely.
Cousin Jimmy nodded, well pleased, and then a strange sound crept into his voice and an odd look into his eyes.
“There is a spell woven round this garden. The blight shall spare it and the green worm pass it by. Drought dares not invade it and the rain comes here gently.”
Emily took an involuntary step backward — she almost felt like running away. But now Cousin Jimmy was himself again.
“Isn’t this grass about the sundial like green velvet? I’ve taken some pains with it, I can tell you. You make yourself at home in this garden.” Cousin Jimmy made a splendid gesture. “I confer the freedom of it upon you. Good-luck to you, and may you find the Lost Diamond.”
“The Lost Diamond?” said Emily wonderingly. What fascinating thing was this?
“Never hear the story? I’ll tell it tomorrow — Sunday’s lazy day at New Moon. I must get off to my turnips now or I’ll have Elizabeth out looking at me. She won’t say anything — she’ll just look. Ever seen the real Murray look?”
“I guess I saw it when Aunt Ruth pulled me out from under the table,” said Emily ruefully.
“No — no. That was the Ruth Dutton look — spite and malice and all uncharitableness. I hate Ruth Dutton. She laughs at my poetry — not that she ever hears any of it. The spirit never moves when Ruth is around. Dunno where they got her. Elizabeth is a crank but she’s sound as a nut, and Laura’s a saint. But Ruth’s worm-eaten. As for the Murray look, you’ll know it when you see it. It’s as well known as the Murray pride. We’re a darn queer lot — but we’re the finest people ever happened. I’ll tell you all about us tomorrow.”
Cousin Jimmy kept his promise while the aunts were
