ently brought to him. “You always put such a nice lot of butter on it, Anne. Marilla spreads it pretty thin. It slips down a lot easier when there’s plenty of butter.”
The slice “slipped down” with tolerable ease, judging from its rapid disappearance. Davy slid head first off the sofa, turned a double somersault on the rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly,
“Anne, I’ve made up my mind about heaven. I don’t want to go there.”
“Why not?” asked Anne gravely.
“’Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher’s garret, and I don’t like Simon Fletcher.”
“Heaven in . . . Simon Fletcher’s garret!” gasped Anne, too amazed even to laugh. “Davy Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head?”
“Milty Boulter says that’s where it is. It was last Sunday in Sunday School. The lesson was about Elijah and Elisha, and I up and asked Miss Rogerson where heaven was. Miss Rogerson looked awful offended. She was cross anyhow, because when she’d asked us what Elijah left Elisha when he went to heaven Milty Boulter said, ‘His old clo’es,’ and us fellows all laughed before we thought. I wish you could think first and do things afterwards, ’cause then you wouldn’t do them. But Milty didn’t mean to be disrespeckful. He just couldn’t think of the name of the thing. Miss Rogerson said heaven was where God was and I wasn’t to ask questions like that.
