“Well, it was partly a zacksident,” explained Davy.  “He stuck his head in on purpose but the rest of him fell in zacksidentally.  We was all down at the brook and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about something . . . she’s awful mean and horrid anyway, if she is pretty . . . and said that his grandmother put his hair up in curl rags every night.  Paul wouldn’t have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie Andrews laughed, and Paul got awful red, ’cause Gracie’s his girl, you know.  He’s clean gone on her . . . brings her flowers and carries her books as far as the shore road.  He got as red as a beet and said his grandmother didn’t do any such thing and his hair was born curly.  And then he laid down on the bank and stuck his head right into the spring to show them.  Oh, it wasn’t the spring we drink out of . . .” seeing a horrified look on Marilla’s face . . . “it was the little one lower down.  But the bank’s awful slippy and Paul went right in.  I tell you he made a bully splash.  Oh, Anne, Anne, I didn’t mean to say that . . . it just slipped out before I thought.  He made a splendid splash.  But he looked so funny when he crawled out, all wet and muddy.  The girls laughed more’n ever, but Gracie didn’t laugh.  She looked sorry.  Gracie’s a nice girl but she’s got a snub nose.  When I get big enough to have a girl I won’t have one with a snub nose . . .  I’ll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne.”

“A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over his face when he is eating his pudding will never get a girl to look at him,” said Marilla severely.

“But I’ll wash my face before I go courting,” protested Davy, trying to improve matters by rubbing the back of his hand over the smears.  “And I’ll wash behind my ears too, without being told.  I remembered to this morning, Marilla.  I don’t forget half as often as I did.  But . . .” and Davy sighed . . . “there’s so many corners about a fellow that it’s awful hard to remember them all.  Well, if I can’t go to Miss Lavendar’s I’ll go over and see Mrs. Harrison.  Mrs. Harrison’s an awful nice woman, I tell you.  She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for little boys, and she always gives me the scrapings out of a pan she’s mixed up a plum cake in.  A good many plums stick to the sides, you see.  Mr. Harrison was always a nice man, but he’s twice as nice since he got married over again.  I guess getting married makes folks nicer.  Why don’t you get married, Marilla?  I want to know.”

Marilla’s state of single blessedness had never been a sore point with her, so she answered amiably, with an exchange of significant looks with Anne, that she supposed it was because nobody would have her.

“But maybe you never asked anybody to have you,” protested Davy.

“Oh, Davy,” said Dora primly, shocked into speaking without being spoken to, “it’s the men that have to do the asking.”

“I don’t know why they have to do it always,” grumbled Davy.  “Seems to me everything’s put on the men in this world.  Can I have some more pudding, Marilla?”