I translated "Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maude Montgomery,1911; Japanese book published by Shueisha, 1993.
In my translated version, there are many annotations about quotations from English and American literature.
For example, the use of quotes and parodies from Shakespeare's plays;"Romeo and Juliet","Hamlet","Macbeth" and so on.
From English poets; Byron,Browning, Tennyson, Campbell, Norton.
From American Poets; Whittier, Longfellow, Sygerny.
And the Bible.
This site "Montgomery Digital Library" was built in order to introduce the poems and plays quoted in "Anne of Green Gables" and other "Anne" books by Montgomery. The number of titles will be increasing.
The original Printed Books of this library were published in the 19th century or earlier, the copyright of each text seems not to be reserved by anyone.
All texts were converted into electronic ones by Masayuki Yamaguchi, Yasuyuki Suzuki and Yuko Matsumoto.
A lot of effort went into producing this library and All digital rights held by Masayuki Yamaguchi, Yasuyuki Suzuki and Yuko Matsumoto.
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"Anne of Green Gables" by L. M. Montgomery, 1911
Japanese Translated by Yuko Matsumoto ,1993, Shueisha
This ballad was written on the occasicn of a Horticultural Festival. Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first settlers in the valley of the Merrimac.
THE beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows Surveyors of highway, -- When Keezar sat on the hillside Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either hand To keep his waxed-ends warm. And there, in the golden weather, He stitched and hammerd and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue. Well know the tough old Teuton. Who brewed the stoutest ale, And he paid the goodwife's reckoning In the coin of song and tale. The songs they still are singing Who dress the hills of vine, The tales that haunt the Brocken And whisper down the Rhine. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray, -- Down on the sharp-horned ledges Plunging in steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, East aud west_and north and south ; Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth ; Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew. No shout of home-bound reapers, No vintage-song he heard, And on the green no dancing feet The merry violin stirred. "Why should folk be glum," said Keezar " When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad ?" Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And plauted a state with prayers,-- Hunting of witchies and warlocks, Smiting the heathen horde,-- One hand on the mason's trowel, And one on the soldier's sword! But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song, Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong. "'Tis work, work, work," he muttered, -- "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxen palms. "Oh for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young! For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung! "Oh for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wiee! For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine!" A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. "Old, old am I," said Keezar, "And the Rhine flows far away!" But a cuntling man was the cobbler; He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming bees. All the virtues of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New. Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his kllee Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles Or the stone of Doctor Dee. For the mighty master Agrippa Wronght it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim To a cobbler Minnesinger The marvellous stone gave he, -- And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea. He held up that mystic lapstone, He held it up like a lens, And he counted the long years coming By twenties and by tens. "One hundred years," quoth Keezar, "And fifty have I told: Now open the new before me, And shut me out the old!" Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone, And a marvellous picture mingled The unknown and the known. Still ran the stream to the river, And river and ocean joined; And ther were the bluffs and the blue sealine, And cold north hills behind. But the mighty forest was broken By many a steepled town, By many a white-walled farm-house, And many a garner brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free; White sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea. Below in the noisy village The flags were floating gay, And shore on a thousand faces The light of a holiday. Swiftly the rival ploughmen Turned the brown earth from their shares; Here were the farmer's treasures, There were the craftsman's wares. Golden the goodwife's butter Ruby her currant-wine; Grand were the strutting turkeys, Fat were the beeves and swine. Yellow and red were the apples, And the ripe pears russet-brown, And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down. And with blooms of hill and wildwood, That shame the toil of art, Mingled the gorgeous blossoms Of the garden's tropic heart. "What is it I see?" said Keezar: "Am I here, or am I there? Is it a fete at Bingen? Do I look on Frankfort Fair? "But where are the clowns and puppets, And imps with horns and tail? And where are the Rhenish flagons? And where is the foaming ale? "Strange things, I know, will happen,-- Strange things the Load permits; But that droughty folk should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits. "Here are smiling manly faces, And the maiden's step is gray; Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. "Here's pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse, The holiday and the bridal Of beauty and of use. "Here's priest and there is a Quaker, Do the cat and dog agree? Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood? Have they cut down the gallows-tree? "Would the old folk know their children? Would they own the graceless town, With never a ranter to worry And never a witch to drown?" Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay; Tossing his arms above him, The lapstone rolled away. It rolled down the rugged hillside, It spun like a wheel bewitched, It plunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched. There, in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still, Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill. But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank, And his dreams make marvellous pintures Where the wizard's lapstone sank. And still, in the summer twilights When the river seems to run Out from the inner glory, Warm with the melted sun, The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charmed stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream. Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly; Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by.
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For weeks the clouds had raked the hill's And vexed the vales with raining, And all the woods were sad with mist, And all the brooks complaining. At last, a sudden night-storm tore The mountain veils asunder, And swept the valleys clean before The besom of the thunder. Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang Good morrow to the cotter; And once again Chocorua's horn Of shadow pierced the water. Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing, Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing. Clear drawn against the hard blue sky, The peaks had winter's keenness; And, close on autumn's frost, the vales Had more than June's fresh greenness. Again the sodden forest floors With golden lights were checkered, Once more rejoicing leaves in wind And sunshine danced and flickered. It was as if the summer's late Atoning for its sadness Had borrowed every season's charm To end its days in gladness. I call to mind those banded vales Of shadow and of shining, Through which, my hostess at my side, I drove in day's declining. We held our sideling way above The river's whitening shallows, By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns Swept through and through by swallows; By maple orchards, belts of pine And larches climbing darkly The mountain slopes, and, over all, The great peaks rising starkly. You should have seen that long hill-range With gaps of brightness riven, -- How through each pass and hollow streamed The purpling lights of heaven, -- Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains, -- The great sun flaming through the rifts Beyond the wall of mountains! We paused at last where home-bound cows Brought down the pasture's treasure, And in the barn the rhythmic flails Beat out a harvest measure. We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling: The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling. And through them smote the level sun In broken lines of splendor, Touched the gray rocks and made the green Of the shorn grass more tender. The maples bending o'er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tinted With yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted. Keen white between the farm-house showed, And smiled on porch and trellis, The fair democracy of flowers That equals cot and palace. And weaving garlands for her dog, 'Twixt chidings and caresses, A human flower of childhood shook The sunshine from her tresses. On either hand we saw the signs Of fancy and of shrewdness, Where taste had wound its arms of vines Round thrift's uncomely rudeness. The sun-brown farmer in his frock Shook hands, and called to Mary: Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, White-aproned from her dairy. Her air, her smile, her motions, told Of womanly completeness; A music as of household songs Was in her voice of sweetness. Not fair alone in curve and line, But something more and better, The secret charm eluding art, Its spirit, not its letter: -- An inborn grace that nothing lacked Of culture or appliance, -- The warmth of genial courtesy, The calm of self-reliance. Before her queenly womanhood How dared our hostess utter The paltry errand of her need To buy her fresh-churned butter? She led the way with housewife pride, Her goodly store disclosing, Full tenderly the golden balls With practised hands disposing. Then, while along the western hills We watched the changeful glory Of sunset, on our homeward way, I heard her simple story. The early crickets sang; the stream Plashed through my friend's narration: Her rustic patois of the hills Lost in my free translation. "More wise," she said, "than those who swarm Our hills in middle summer, She came, when June's first roses blow, To greet the early comer. "From school and ball and rout she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water. "Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over; On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover. "For health comes sparkling in the streams From cool Chocorua stealing: There's iron in our Northern winds; Our pines are trees of healing. "She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow. "Beside her, from the summer heat To share her grateful screening, With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning. "Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face Had nothing mean or common, -- Strong, manly, true, the tenderness And pride beloved of woman. "She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her, And, laughing said: 'You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter. " 'To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady: Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready, -- " 'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure.' "He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly. ' 'T is well,' he said, 'for one like you To choose for me so lightly. " 'You think because my life is rude I take no note of sweetness: I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness. " 'Itself its best excuse, it asks No leave of pride or fashion When silken zone or homespun frock It stirs with throbs of passion. " 'You think me deaf and blind: you bring Your winning graces hither As free as if from cradle-time We two bad played together. " 'You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes. " 'The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me You cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me. " 'You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me; What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me? " 'No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother: Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another! " 'I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding; I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading.' "She looked up in his face of pain So archly, yet so tender: 'And if I lend you mine,' she said, 'Will you forgive the lender? " 'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man; And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waits Behind the silken armor? " 'I love you: on that love alone, And not my worth presuming, Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming?' "Alone the hangbird overhead, His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle, -- The giving that is gaining. "And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter: There looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water. "Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty. "Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about the social air Is sweeter for her coming. "Unspoken homilies of peace Her daily life is preaching; The still refreshment of the dew 'Is her unconscious teaching. "And never tenderer hand than hers Unknits the brow of ailing; Her garments to the sick man's ear Have music in their trailing. "And when, in pleasant harvest moons; The youthful huskers gather, Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways Defy the winter weather, -- "In sugar-camps, when south and warm The winds of March are blowing, And sweetly from its thawing veins The maple's blood is flowing, -- "In summer, where some lilied pond Its virgin zone is baring, Or where the ruddy autumn fire Lights up the apple-paring, -- "The coarseness of a ruder time Her finer mirth displaces, A subtler sense of pleasure fills Each rustic sport she graces. "Her presence lends its warmth and health To all who come before it. If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it. "For larger life and wiser aims The farmer is her debtor; Who holds to his another's heart Must needs be worse or better. "Through her his civic service shows A purer-toned ambition; No double consciousness divides The man and politician. "In party's doubtful ways he trusts Her instincts to determine ; At the loud polls, the thought of her Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. "He owns her logic of the heart, And wisdom of unreason, Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, The needed word in season. "He sees with pride her richer thought, Her fancy's freer ranges; And love thus deepened to respect Is proof against all changes. "And if she walks at ease in ways His feet are slow to travel, And if she reads with cultured eyes What his may scarce unravel, "Still clearer, for her keener sight Of beauty and of wonder, He learns the meaning of the hills He dwelt from childhood under. "And higher, warmed with summer lights, Or winter-crowned and hoary, The ridged horizon lifts for him Its inner veils of glory. "He has his own free, bookless lore, The lessons nature taught him, The wisdom which the woods and hills And toiling men have brought him: "The steady force of will whereby Her flexile grace seems sweeter; The sturdy counterpoise which makes Her woman's life completer; "A latent fire of soul which lacks No breath of love to fan it; And wit, that, like his native brooks, Plays over solid granite. "How dwarfed against his manliness She sees the poor pretension, The wants, the aims, the follies, born Of fashion and convention! "How life behind its accidents Stands strong and self-sustaining, The human fact transcending all The losing and the gaining. "And so in grateful interchange Of teacher and of hearer, Their lives their true distinctness keep While daily drawing nearer. "And if the husband or the wife In home's strong light discovers Such slight defaults as failed to meet The blinded eyes of lovers, "Why need we care to ask? - Who dreams Without their thorns of roses, Or wonders that the truest steel The readiest spark discloses? "For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living; Love scarce is love that never knows The sweetness of forgiving. "We send the Squire to General Court, He takes his young wife thither; No pronder man election day Rides through the sweet June weather. "He sees with eyes of manly trust All hearts to her inclining; Not less for him his household light That others share its shining." Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew Before me, warmer tinted And outlined with a tenderer grace, The picture that she hinted. The sunset smouldered as we drove Beneath the deep hill-shadows. Below us wreaths of white fog walked Like ghosts the haunted meadows. Sounding the summer night, the stars Dropped down their golden plummets; The pale are of the Northern lights Rose o'er the mountain summits, Until, at last, beneath its bridge, We heard the Bearcamp flowing, And saw across the mapled lawn The welcome horm-lights glowing. And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if often To rugged farm-life came the gift To harmonize and soften; If more and more we found the troth Of fact and fancy plighted, And culture's charm and labor's strength In rural homes united, -- The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding, And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding.
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Slowly England's sun was setting oe'r the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!" "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,-- "I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!" "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart), "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right: Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must "die. And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!" She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before. Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro; As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell; Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Out she swung,-- far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,-- There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro. And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell. "Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!" It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. "Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky, Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet; Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."
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I've made a vow, I'll keep it true, I'll never married be; For the only ane that I think on will never think o'me. Noe gane to a far distant shore, Their face nae mair I'll see; But often will I think o'them, That winna think o'me. Gae owre, gae owre noo, gude Sir John, Oh, dinna follow me; For the only ane I ere thocht on, Lies burried in the sea.
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In the Hazel Dell my Nelly's sleeping, Nelly lov'd so long! And my lonely watch I'm nightly keeping, Nelly, lost and gone. Here in moonlight often we have wander'd Thro' the silent glade; Now where leafy branches all point downward; Litlle NelIy's laid. All alone my watch I'm keeping In the Hazel Dell, For my darling Nelly's near me sleeping. Nelly, dear,farewell.
If you see the sheet music, click here
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