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 tonight. 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 humor--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 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 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 tonight 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 tonight? I’ll

send to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the 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.”