Kilmeny of the Orchard

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face:

As still was her look and as still was her ee,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.

 
I had been in the book stall at our local antique market for over half an hour, raking frantically through dusty boxes marked SALE—Half Price and piling my choices at the feet of the vendor with a half-abashed expression when I saw it, a blue corner edging from a pile of Reader’s Digest Condensed Novels and Henty books battered beyond repair.  It was one of those moments of triumph that are wine to the book lover’s soul, a small victory that erased the sting of coveted volumes priced above all possibility deeper within the booth.  I couldn’t believe my luck—surely the seller had no idea what he had!  A beautiful, carefully-kept 1911 Kilmeny of the Orchard by L.M. Montgomery with all of the color plates intact and an owner’s inscription in a light flourishing hand.  Not a first edition, to be sure, but I have never cared too much for that.  I added it to my pile, held my breath as he totaled, and paid my two dollars a book before he had a chance to change his mind.      

All the way home I gloated over it, and once there I left it out on a table for a few days to peruse its illustrations at will and savor the sweet success of my Lakewood venture.  A find like that will make hours of fruitless searching in the Georgia heat worthwhile. 

My first enthralling encounter with this lovely little book came washing over me at the opening sentence…The sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet…and I felt like I had been reunited with a long-absent friend.  I was well acquainted with Anne when I first met Kilmeny as a teenager, but the fascination of this enigmatic dark-haired maiden and the ardent young tutor who loved her hadn’t faded a bit.  Some of Lucy Maud’s most tender passages and stirring depictions of the rural life so beloved by her readers are tucked away in this small gem of a novel.  Indeed, it’s all I can do not to go and curl up on the porch swing with it at this very moment.  But dinner won’t fix itself…