The Running Away of Chester Page #4

"The Running Away of Chester" is a charming short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that follows the adventures of a young boy named Chester who feels misunderstood and trapped in his mundane life. In his quest for freedom and excitement, Chester decides to run away, leading to a series of encounters that help him gain a deeper understanding of himself and the importance of love and belonging. Montgomery's signature lyrical prose and rich character development evoke a sense of nostalgia and highlight the struggles of childhood, making the story resonate with readers of all ages.

• Short story

								

bad luck. Day after day passed and, although he tramped resolutely
from street to street and visited every place that seemed to offer any
chance, he could get no employment. In spite of his pluck, his heart
began to fail him.

At the end of a week Chester woke up among his lumber to a realization
that he was at the end of his resources. He had just five cents left
out of the four dollars that were to have been the key to his fortune.
He sat gloomily on the wall of his sleeping apartment and munched the
one solitary cracker he had left. It must carry him through the day
unless he got work. The five cents must be kept for some dire
emergency.

He started uptown rather aimlessly. In his week's wanderings he had
come to know the city very well and no longer felt confused with its
size and bustle. He envied every busy boy he saw. Back in Upton he had
sometimes resented the fact that he was kept working continually and
was seldom allowed an hour off. Now he was burdened with spare time.
It certainly did not seem as if things were fairly divided, he
thought. And then he thought no more just then, for one of the queer
spells in his head came on. He had experienced them at intervals
during the last three days. Something seemed to break loose in his
head and spin wildly round and round, while houses and people and
trees danced and wobbled all about him. Chester vaguely wondered if
this could be what Aunt Harriet had been wont to call a "judgement."
But then, he had done nothing very bad--nothing that would warrant a
judgement, he thought. It was surely no harm to run away from a place
where you were treated so bad and where they did not seem to want you.
Chester felt bitter whenever he thought of Aunt Harriet.

Presently he found himself in the market square of Montrose. It was
market day, and the place was thronged with people from the
surrounding country settlements. Chester had hoped that he might pick
up a few cents, holding a horse or cow for somebody or carrying a
market basket, but no such chance offered itself. He climbed up on
some bales of pressed hay in one corner and sat there moodily; there
was dejection in the very dangle of his legs over the bales. Chester,
you see, was discovering what many a boy before him has
discovered--that it is a good deal easier to sit down and make a
fortune in dreams than it is to go out into the world and make it.

Two men were talking to each other near him. At first Chester gave no
heed to their conversation, but presently a sentence made him prick up
his ears.

"Yes, there's a pretty fair crop out at Hopedale," one man was saying,
"but whether it's going to be got in in good shape is another matter.
It's terrible hard to get any help. Every spare man-jack far and wide
has gone West on them everlasting harvest excursions. Salome Whitney
at the Mount Hope Farm is in a predicament. She's got a hired man, but
he can't harvest grain all by himself. She spent the whole of
yesterday driving around, trying to get a couple of men or boys to
help him, but I dunno if she got anyone or not."

The men moved out of earshot at this juncture, but Chester got down
from the bales with a determined look. If workers were wanted in
Hopedale, that was the place for him. He had done a man's work at
harvest time in Upton the year before. Lige Barton had said so
himself. Hope and courage returned with a rush.

He accosted the first man he met and asked if he could tell him the
way to Hopedale.

"Reckon I can, sonny. I live in the next district. Want to go there?
If you wait till evening, I can give you a lift part of the way. It's
five miles out."

"Thank you, sir," said Chester firmly, "but I must go at once if
you'll kindly direct me. It's important."

"Well, it's a straight road. That's Albemarle Street down
there--follow it till it takes you out to the country, and then keep
straight on till you come to a church painted yellow and white. Turn
to your right, and over the hill is Hopedale. But you'd better wait
for me. You don't look fit to walk five miles."

But Chester was off. Walk five miles! Pooh! He could walk twenty with
hope to lure him on. Albemarle Street finally frayed off into a real
country road. Chester was glad to find himself out in the country once
more, with the great golden fields basking on either side and the
wooded hills beyond, purple with haze. He had grown to hate the town
with its cold, unheeding faces. It was good to breathe clear air again
and feel the soft, springy soil of the ferny roadside under his tired
little feet.

Long before the five miles were covered, Chester began to wonder if he
would hold out to the end of them. He had to stop and rest frequently,
when those queer dizzy spells came on. His feet seemed like lead. But
he kept doggedly on. He would not give in now! The white and yellow
church was the most welcome sight that had ever met his eyes.

Over the hill he met a man and inquired the way to Mount Hope Farm.
Fortunately, it was nearby. At the gate Chester had to stop again to
recover from his dizziness.

He liked the look of the place, with its great, comfortable barns and
quaint, roomy old farmhouse, all set down in a trim quadrangle of
beeches and orchards. There was an appearance of peace and prosperity
about it.

If only Miss Salome Whitney will hire me! thought Chester wistfully,
as he crept up the slope. I'm afraid she'll say I'm too small. Wisht I
could stretch three inches all at once. Wisht I wasn't so dizzy.
Wisht--

What Chester's third wish was will never be known, for just as he
reached the kitchen door the worst dizzy spell of all came on. Trees,
barns, well-sweep, all whirled around him with the speed of wind. He
reeled and fell, a limp, helpless little body, on Miss Salome
Whitney's broad, spotless sandstone doorstep.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Mount Hope kitchen Miss Salome was at that moment deep in
discussion with her "help" over the weighty question of how the
damsons were to be preserved. Miss Salome wanted them boiled;
Clemantiny Bosworth, the help, insisted that they ought to be baked.
Clemantiny was always very positive. She had "bossed" Miss Salome for
years, and both knew that in the end the damsons would be baked, but
the argument had to be carried out for dignity's sake.

"They're so sour when they're baked," protested Miss Salome.

"Well, you don't want damsons sweet, do you?" retorted Clemantiny
scornfully. "That's the beauty of damsons--their tartness. And they
keep ever so much better baked, Salome--you know they do. My
grandmother always baked hers, and they would keep for three years."

Miss Salome knew that when Clemantiny dragged her grandmother into the
question, it was time to surrender. Beyond that, dignity degenerated
into stubbornness. It would be useless to say that she did not want to
keep her damsons for three years, and that she was content to eat them
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes