The Garden of Spices

"The Garden of Spices" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a charming collection of short stories that delves into themes of nature, love, and the passage of time. Set against the backdrop of the rich landscapes of Prince Edward Island, the tales explore the lives and emotions of various characters, weaving together elements of romance and the beauty of the natural world. Montgomery's lyrical prose and keen observations create a tapestry of both joy and melancholy, inviting readers to reflect on the deeper meanings of life and the transient nature of happiness.

• Short story

								
Jims tried the door of the blue room. Yes, it was locked. He had hoped
Aunt Augusta might have forgotten to lock it; but when did Aunt
Augusta forget anything? Except, perhaps, that little boys were not
born grown-ups--and that was something she never remembered. To be
sure, she was only a half-aunt. Whole aunts probably had more
convenient memories.

Jims turned and stood with his back against the door. It was better
that way; he could not imagine things behind him then. And the blue
room was so big and dim that a dreadful number of things could be
imagined in it. All the windows were shuttered but one, and that one
was so darkened by a big pine tree branching right across it that it
did not let in much light.

Jims looked very small and lost and lonely as he shrank back against
the door--so small and lonely that one might have thought that even
the sternest of half-aunts should have thought twice before shutting
him up in that room and telling him he must stay there the whole
afternoon instead of going out for a promised ride. Jims hated being
shut up alone--especially in the blue room. Its bigness and dimness
and silence filled his sensitive little soul with vague horror.
Sometimes he became almost sick with fear in it. To do Aunt Augusta
justice, she never suspected this. If she had she would not have
decreed this particular punishment, because she knew Jims was delicate
and must not be subjected to any great physical or mental strain. That
was why she shut him up instead of whipping him. But how was she to
know it? Aunt Augusta was one of those people who never know anything
unless it is told them in plain language and then hammered into their
heads. There was no one to tell her but Jims, and Jims would have died
the death before he would have told Aunt Augusta, with her cold,
spectacled eyes and thin, smileless mouth, that he was desperately
frightened when he was shut in the blue room. So he was always shut in
it for punishment; and the punishments came very often, for Jims was
always doing things that Aunt Augusta considered naughty. At first,
this time, Jims did not feel quite so frightened as usual because he
was very angry. As he put it, he was very mad at Aunt Augusta. He
hadn't meant to spill his pudding over the floor and the tablecloth
and his clothes; and how such a little bit of pudding--Aunt Augusta
was mean with desserts--could ever have spread itself over so much
territory Jims could not understand. But he had made a terrible mess
and Aunt Augusta had been very angry and had said he must be cured of
such carelessness. She said he must spend the afternoon in the blue
room instead of going for a ride with Mrs. Loring in her new car.

Jims was bitterly disappointed. If Uncle Walter had been home Jims
would have appealed to him--for when Uncle Walter could be really
wakened up to a realization of his small nephew's presence in his
home, he was very kind and indulgent. But it was so hard to waken him
up that Jims seldom attempted it. He liked Uncle Walter, but as far as
being acquainted with him went he might as well have been the
inhabitant of a star in the Milky Way. Jims was just a lonely,
solitary little creature, and sometimes he felt so friendless that his
eyes smarted, and several sobs had to be swallowed.

There were no sobs just now, though--Jims was still too angry. It
wasn't fair. It was so seldom he got a car ride. Uncle Walter was
always too busy, attending to sick children all over the town, to take
him. It was only once in a blue moon Mrs. Loring asked him to go out
with her. But she always ended up with ice cream or a movie, and
to-day Jims had had strong hopes that both were on the programme.

"I hate Aunt Augusta," he said aloud; and then the sound of his voice
in that huge, still room scared him so that he only thought the rest.
"I won't have any fun--and she won't feed my gobbler, either."

Jims had shrieked "Feed my gobbler," to the old servant as he had been
hauled upstairs. But he didn't think Nancy Jane had heard him, and
nobody, not even Jims, could imagine Aunt Augusta feeding the gobbler.
It was always a wonder to him that she ate, herself. It seemed really
too human a thing for her to do.

"I wish I had spilled that pudding on purpose," Jims said
vindictively, and with the saying his anger evaporated--Jims never
could stay angry long--and left him merely a scared little fellow,
with velvety, nut-brown eyes full of fear that should have no place in
a child's eyes. He looked so small and helpless as he crouched against
the door that one might have wondered if even Aunt Augusta would not
have relented had she seen him.

How that window at the far end of the room rattled! It sounded
terribly as if somebody--or something--were trying to get in. Jims
looked desperately at the unshuttered window. He must get to it; once
there, he could curl up in the window seat, his back to the wall, and
forget the shadows by looking out into the sunshine and loveliness of
the garden over the wall. Jims would have likely have been found dead
of fright in that blue room some time had it not been for the garden
over the wall.

But to get to the window Jims must cross the room and pass by the bed.
Jims held that bed in special dread. It was the oldest fashioned thing
in the old-fashioned, old-furnitured house. It was high and rigid, and
hung with gloomy blue curtains. Anything might jump out of such a
bed.

Jims gave a gasp and ran madly across the room. He reached the window
and flung himself upon the seat. With a sigh of relief he curled down
in the corner. Outside, over the high brick wall, was a world where
his imagination could roam, though his slender little body was pent a
prisoner in the blue room.

Jims had loved that garden from his first sight of it. He called it
the Garden of Spices and wove all sorts of yarns in fancy--yarns gay
and tragic--about it. He had only known it for a few weeks. Before
that, they had lived in a much smaller house away at the other side of
the town. Then Uncle Walter's uncle--who had brought him up just as he
was bringing up Jims--had died, and they had all come to live in Uncle
Walter's old home. Somehow, Jims had an idea that Uncle Walter wasn't
very glad to come back there. But he had to, according to
great-uncle's will. Jims himself didn't mind much. He liked the
smaller rooms in their former home better, but the Garden of Spices
made up for all.

It was such a beautiful spot. Just inside the wall was a row of aspen
poplars that always talked in silvery whispers and shook their dainty,
heart-shaped leaves at him. Beyond them, under scattered pines, was a
rockery where ferns and wild things grew. It was almost as good as a
bit of woods--and Jims loved the woods, though he scarcely ever saw
them. Then, past the pines, were roses just breaking into June
bloom--roses in such profusion as Jims hadn't known existed, with dear
little paths twisting about among the bushes. It seemed to be a garden

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