Her Own People

"Her Own People" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a novel that explores themes of belonging, identity, and community through the eyes of its protagonist, a young girl named Judith. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Canada, the story follows Judith as she navigates her relationships with family, friends, and the wider community. Filled with Montgomery's characteristic warmth and rich descriptions of rural life, the book delves into the complexities of personal growth, the longing for acceptance, and the challenges of finding one's place in the world. As Judith confronts various trials, her journey becomes a poignant reflection on the importance of understanding and embracing one's roots.

• Short story

								
The Taunton School had closed for the summer holidays. Constance
Foster and Miss Channing went down the long, elm-shaded street
together, as they generally did, because they happened to board on the
same block downtown.

Constance was the youngest teacher on the staff, and had charge of the
Primary Department. She had taught in Taunton school a year, and at
its close she was as much of a stranger in the little corps of
teachers as she had been at the beginning. The others thought her
stiff and unapproachable; she was unpopular in a negative way with all
except Miss Channing, who made it a profession to like everybody, the
more so if other people disliked them. Miss Channing was the oldest
teacher on the staff, and taught the fifth grade. She was short and
stout and jolly; nothing, not even the iciest reserve, ever daunted
Miss Channing.

"Isn't it good to think of two whole blessed months of freedom?" she
said jubilantly. "Two months to dream, to be lazy, to go where one
pleases, no exercises to correct, no reports to make, no pupils to
keep in order. To be sure, I love them every one, but I'll love them
all the more for a bit of a rest from them. Isn't it good?"

A little satirical smile crossed Constance Foster's dark, discontented
face, looking just then all the more discontented in contrast to Miss
Channing's rosy, beaming countenance.

"It's very good, if you have anywhere to go, or anybody who cares
where you go," she said bitterly. "For my own part, I'm sorry school
is closed. I'd rather go on teaching all summer."

"Heresy!" said Miss Channing. "Rank heresy! What are your vacation
plans?"

"I haven't any," said Constance wearily. "I've put off thinking about
vacation as long as I possibly could. You'll call that heresy, too,
Miss Channing."

"It's worse than heresy," said Miss Channing briskly. "It's a crying
necessity for blue pills, that's what it is. Your whole mental and
moral and physical and spiritual system must be out of kilter, my
child. No vacation plans! You must have vacation plans. You must be
going somewhere."

"Oh, I suppose I'll hunt up a boarding place somewhere in the country,
and go there and mope until September."

"Have you no friends, Constance?"

"No--no, I haven't anybody in the world. That is why I hate vacation,
that is why I've hated to hear you and the others discussing your
vacation plans. You all have somebody to go to. It has just filled me
up with hatred of my life."

Miss Channing swallowed her honest horror at such a state of feeling.

"Constance, tell me about yourself. I've often wanted to ask you, but
I was always a little afraid to. You seem so reserved and--and, as if
you didn't want to be asked about yourself."

"I know it. I know I'm stiff and hateful, and that nobody likes me,
and that it is all my own fault. No, never mind trying to smooth it
over, Miss Channing. It's the truth, and it hurts me, but I can't help
it. I'm getting more bitter and pessimistic and unwholesome every day
of my life. Sometimes it seems as if I hated all the world because I'm
so lonely in it. I'm nobody. My mother died when I was born--and
Father--oh, I don't know. One can't say anything against one's father,
Miss Channing. But I had a hard childhood--or rather, I didn't have
any childhood at all. We were always moving about. We didn't seem to
have any friends at all. My mother might have had relatives
somewhere, but I never heard of any. I don't even know where her home
was. Father never would talk of her. He died two years ago, and since
then I've been absolutely alone."

"Oh, you poor girl," said Miss Channing softly.

"I want friends," went on Constance, seeming to take a pleasure in
open confession now that her tongue was loosed. "I've always just
longed for somebody belonging to me to love. I don't love anybody,
Miss Channing, and when a girl is in that state, she is all wrong. She
gets hard and bitter and resentful--I have, anyway. I struggled
against it at first, but it has been too much for me. It poisons
everything. There is nobody to care anything about me, whether I live
or die."

"Oh, yes, there is One," said Miss Channing gently. "God cares,
Constance."

Constance gave a disagreeable little laugh.

"That sounds like Miss Williams--she is so religious. God doesn't mean
anything to me, Miss Channing. I've just the same resentful feeling
toward him that I have for all the world, if he exists at all. There,
I've shocked you in good earnest now. You should have left me alone,
Miss Channing."

"God means nothing to you because you've never had him translated to
you through human love, Constance," said Miss Channing seriously. "No,
you haven't shocked me--at least, not in the way you mean. I'm only
terribly sorry."

"Oh, never mind me," said Constance, freezing up into her reserve
again as if she regretted her confidences. "I'll get along all right.
This is one of my off days, when everything looks black."

Miss Channing walked on in silence. She must help Constance, but
Constance was not easily helped. When school reopened, she might be
able to do something worthwhile for the girl, but just now the only
thing to do was to put her in the way of a pleasant vacation.

"You spoke of boarding," she said, when Constance paused at the door
of her boarding-house. "Have you any particular place in view? No?
Well, I know a place which I am sure you would like. I was there two
summers ago. It is a country place about a hundred miles from here.
Pine Valley is its name. It's restful and homey, and the people are so
nice. If you like, I'll give you the address of the family I boarded
with."

"Thank you," said Constance indifferently. "I might as well go there
as anywhere else."

"Yes, but listen to me, dear. Don't take your morbidness with you.
Open your heart to the summer, and let its sunshine in, and when you
come back in the fall, come prepared to let us all be your friends.
We'd like to be, and while friendship doesn't take the place of the
love of one's own people, still it is a good and beautiful thing.
Besides, there are other unhappy people in the world--try to help them
when you meet them, and you'll forget about yourself. Good-by for now,
and I hope you'll have a pleasant vacation in spite of yourself."

Constance went to Pine Valley, but she took her evil spirit with her.
Not even the beauty of the valley, with its great balmy pines, and the
cheerful friendliness of its people could exorcise it.

Nevertheless, she liked the place and found a wholesome pleasure in
the long tramps she took along the piney roads.

"I saw such a pretty spot in my ramble this afternoon," she told her
landlady one evening. "It is about three miles from here at the end of

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