Datasets:
edwindvinas
/
testdataset

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
 Community
text
stringlengths
0
72
“The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the
he’s.”
Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time she
wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the first
place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the second place,
Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old widower and Valancy had
been brought up in the fear and admonition of his money. If she
offended him he would cut her out of his will—supposing she were in it.
Valancy did not want to be cut out of Uncle Benjamin’s will. She had
been poor all her life and knew the galling bitterness of it. So she
endured his riddles and even smiled tortured little smiles over them.
Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would
criticise her in some way—Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt
Isabel never repeated a criticism—she found something new with which to
jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she
thought, but didn’t like it so well when other people said what _they_
thought to _her_. Valancy never said what _she_ thought.
Cousin Georgiana—named after her great-great-grand-mother, who had been
named after George the Fourth—would recount dolorously the names of all
relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic and wonder
“which of us will be the first to go next.”
Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her
husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because Valancy
would be the only one she could find to put up with it. For the same
reason, Cousin Gladys—really First Cousin Gladys once removed,
according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated
relationship—a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive
disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis. And
Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan, who had everything
Valancy had not—beauty, popularity, love,—would show off her beauty and
presume on her popularity and flaunt her diamond insignia of love in
Valancy’s dazzled, envious eyes.
There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up
of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin
Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt
Wellington’s wedding set had been lost. Valancy never heard the last of
that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every
subsequent family feast.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she
blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no picnic
this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day
itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank whatever gods there
were for that.
Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if the
rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library and get
another of John Foster’s books. Valancy was never allowed to read
novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels. They were “nature
books”—so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling—“all about the
woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.” So Valancy
was allowed to read them—under protest, for it was only too evident
that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible, even laudable, to
read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was
enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know whether her mind was
being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across
John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing
for her. They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she
might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.
It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been in
the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had
been a well-known writer for several years.
“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.
“Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more
information can be had. His publishers won’t say a word. Quite likely
John Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we can’t keep
them in at all, though I really can’t see what people find in them to
rave over.”
“I think they’re wonderful,” said Valancy, timidly.
“Oh—well—” Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that relegated
Valancy’s opinions to limbo, “I can’t say I care much for bugs myself.
But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to know about them.”
Valancy didn’t know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was not
John Foster’s uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect life that
enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was—some tantalising lure
of a mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little
further on—some faint, elusive echo of lovely, forgotten things—John
Foster’s magic was indefinable.
Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had
_Thistle Harvest_, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had read
it four times—she knew whole passages off by heart.
And—she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that queer
pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and the
palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an occasional
dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But could she go to see
him without telling any one? It was a most daring thought. None of the
Stirlings ever consulted a doctor without holding a family council and