Anne Of Green Gables (Chapter 1 - 2) | Cozy Bedtime Story

Welcome, kindred spirits!

Tonight, we begin a new cozy bedtime story chapter book series with the timeless classic Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I’ll be narrating a couple of chapters, offering a gentle escape into the charming world of Anne Shirley and the beautiful landscapes of Prince Edward Island. Perfect for relaxing, unwinding, and finding calm before bedtime.

So lie back, relax, and allow the gentle narration to guide you into a peaceful slumber.

Sweetest of dreams, Joanne

The music in this episode is by Golden Peas via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Welcome to Drift Off Bedtime Stories.

I'm your host Joanne,

And I'm so glad you've joined me.

Tonight,

We begin a new journey together as we dive into the timeless classic Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Each Sunday,

I'll be narrating a few chapters,

Offering a gentle escape into the charming world of Anne Shirley and the beautiful landscapes of Prince Edward Island.

Now,

Before we begin,

Let's take a moment to relax and settle in.

Find a comfortable position,

Gently close your eyes,

And take a deep breath in,

And slowly exhale.

Feel your body beginning to unwind as you let go of any tension.

Imagine yourself in a peaceful,

Cozy space,

Ready to drift off into a world of imagination and rest.

And some,

My friend,

Let's step into the enchanting world now of Anne of Green Gables.

Chapter 1.

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde is Surprised.

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea Main Road dipped down into a little hollow.

Fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops,

And crossed by a brook that started far back in the woods of the old Cuthbert Place.

Early in its journey through the woods,

The brook was known to be an intricate,

Headlong stream full of dark secrets of pools and cascades.

But by the time it reached Lynde's hollow,

It had become a quiet,

Well-behaved little stream.

Not even a brook could pass by Mrs.

Rachel Lynde's door without showing proper respect for decency and decorum.

The brook likely knew that Mrs.

Rachel was sitting at her window,

Keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed,

From brooks to children.

If she noticed anything odd or out of place,

She would never rest until she had discovered the reasons for it.

There were plenty of people in Avonlea,

And outside of it,

Who could closely attend to their neighbors' business by neglecting their own.

But Mrs.

Rachel Lynde was one of those capable individuals who could manage her own concerns and those of others as well.

She was a notable housewife.

Her work was always done and done well.

She ran the sewing circle,

Helped run the Sunday school,

And was the strongest supporter of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary.

Yet with all this,

Mrs.

Rachel found plenty of time to sit for hours at her kitchen window,

Knitting cotton warp quilts—she had knitted sixteen of them as Avonlea housekeepers would tell in odd voices—and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond.

Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St.

Lawrence with water on two sides,

Anyone who went out of it or into it had to pass over the hill road and so run the unseen scrutiny of Mrs.

Rachel's all-seeing eye.

One afternoon in early June,

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde was sitting by her window.

The sun streamed in,

Warm and bright.

The orchard on the slope below the house was in full bloom,

A bridal flush of pinky white flowers.

Thomas Lynde,

A meek little man whom the people of Avonlea called Rachel Lynde's husband,

Was sowing his late turnip seed in the hill field beyond the barn.

Matthew Cuthbert should have been sowing his turnip seed in the big red brook field over by Green Gables.

Mrs.

Rachel knew this because she had overheard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J.

Blair's store over at Carmody that he planned to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon.

Peter had asked him,

Of course,

Since Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his entire life.

And yet,

Here was Matthew Cuthbert,

A half-past three on a busy afternoon,

Calmly driving over the hollow and up the hill.

Moreover,

He wore a white collar and his best suit,

Which clearly indicated he was leaving Avonlea.

He had the buggy and the chestnut mare,

Suggesting he was going a considerable distance.

Now,

Where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea,

Mrs.

Rachel might have pieced together the clues and guessed fairly well.

But Matthew so rarely left home that it had to be something pressing or unusual taking him away.

He was the shyest man alive and hated going among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk.

Matthew,

Dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy,

Was a rare sight.

Mrs.

Rachel,

Ponder as she might,

Could make nothing of it,

And her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled.

I'll just dip over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why,

She finally concluded.

He doesn't usually go to town at this time of year,

And he never visits.

If he'd run out of turnip seed,

He wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to get more.

He wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor,

Yet something must have happened since last night to set him off.

I'm completely puzzled,

And I won't have a minute's peace of mind until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.

After tea,

Mrs.

Rachel set out.

She didn't have far to go.

The big,

Rambling,

Orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was only a quarter of a mile up the road from Lynn's Hollow.

To be sure,

The long lane made it seem a bit farther.

Matthew Cuthbert's father,

As shy and silent as his son after him,

Had settled as far away as he possibly could from other people without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead.

Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land,

And there it remained to this day,

Barely visible from the main road where all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated.

Mrs.

Rachel Lynde did not consider living in such a place,

Living at all.

It's just staying,

That's what she said as she walked along the deep,

Rutted,

Grassy lane bordered with wild rosemushes.

It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd,

Living back here by themselves.

Trees aren't much company,

Though dear knows if they were,

There'd be plenty of them.

I'd rather look at people.

To be sure,

They seem content enough,

But then I suppose they're used to it.

A body can get used to anything,

Even to being hanged,

As the Irishman said.

With this,

Mrs.

Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables.

The yard was very green,

Neat and precise,

Flanked on one side by great patriarchal willows and on the other by prim Lombardi poplars.

Not a stray stick or stone was to be seen,

For Mrs.

Rachel would have noticed if there had been.

Privately,

She believed Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard as often as she swept her house.

One could have eaten a meal off the ground without exceeding the proverbial peck of dirt.

Mrs.

Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when invited.

The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful room,

Or would have been cheerful if it weren't so painfully clean that it resembled an unused parlor.

Its windows faced east and west.

Through the west window,

Which looked out on the backyard,

Came a flood of mellow June sunlight.

The east window,

Offering a glimpse of blooming white cherry trees in the left orchard and nodding,

Slender birches down in the hollow by the brook was covered with a tangle of vines.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert when she sat at all,

Always slightly distrustful of sunshine,

Which seemed to her too lively and irresponsible for a world meant to be taken seriously.

Here she sat now,

Knitting,

And the table behind her was set for supper.

Before she had fully closed the door,

Mrs.

Rachel had already taken mental note of everything on the table.

Three plates were laid,

So Marilla must be expecting someone home with Matthew for tea,

But the dishes were everyday ones,

And there was only crabapple preserves and one kind of cake,

So the expected company could not be anyone special.

Yet what about Matthew's white collar and the chestnut mare?

Mrs.

Rachel was getting dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet,

Unmysterious Gringables.

Good evening,

Rachel,

Marilla said briskly.

This is a real fine evening,

Isn't it?

Won't you sit down?

How is everyone in your family?

Something that,

For lack of a better term,

Might be called friendship existed,

And always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs.

Rachel,

Despite,

Or perhaps because of,

Their dissimilarity.

Marilla was a tall,

Thin woman with angles and without curves.

Her dark hair showed some grey streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind the two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it.

She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience,

Which she was,

But there was a saving something about her mouth which,

If it had been ever so slightly developed,

Might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor.

We're all pretty well,

Said Mrs.

Rachel.

I was kind of afraid you weren't though,

When I saw Matthew starting off today.

I thought maybe he was going to the doctors.

Marilla's lip twitched understandingly.

She had expected Mrs.

Rachel to come up,

She knew that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity.

Oh no,

I'm quite well,

Although I had a bad headache yesterday,

She said.

Matthew went to Bright River.

We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia,

And he's coming on the train tonight.

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia,

Mrs.

Rachel could not have been more astonished.

She was actually struck dumb for five seconds.

It was unimaginable that Marilla was making fun of her,

But Mrs.

Rachel was almost forced to think so.

Are you serious,

Marilla,

She demanded when her voice returned.

Yes,

Of course,

Said Marilla,

As if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia was part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Abenley farm,

Rather than an unheard of innovation.

Mrs.

Rachel felt she had received a severe mental jolt.

She thought in exclamation points,

A boy!

Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy from an orphan asylum.

While the world was certainly turning upside down,

She would be surprised at nothing after this,

Nothing.

What on earth put such a notion into your head,

She demanded disapprovingly.

This had been done without her advice being asked,

And must therefore be disapproved.

Well,

We've been thinking about it for some time.

All winter,

In fact,

Returned Marilla.

Mrs.

Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas,

And she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopedon in the spring.

Her cousin lives there,

And Mrs.

Spencer has visited her and knows all about it.

So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since.

We thought we'd get a boy.

Matthew's getting up in years,

You know,

He's 60,

And he isn't as spry as he once was.

His heart troubles him a good deal,

And you know how desperately hard it's gotten to be to get hired help.

There's never anybody to be had but those stupid,

Half-grown little French boys,

And as soon as you get one broken into your ways and taught something,

He's up and off to the lobster canneries or the States.

At first,

Matthew suggested getting a home boy,

But I said no flat to that.

They may be all right.

I'm not saying they're not.

Give me a native born at least.

There'll be a risk no matter who we get,

But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at night if we get a born Canadian.

So in the end,

We decided to ask Mrs.

Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl.

We heard last week she was going,

So we sent word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart,

Likely boy of about 10 or 11.

We decided that would be the best age.

Old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off,

And young enough to be trained up properly.

We mean to give him a good home and schooling.

We had a telegram from Mrs.

Alexander Spencer today.

The mailman brought it from the station,

Saying they were coming on the 530 train tonight.

So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him.

Mrs.

Spencer will drop him off there.

Of course,

She goes on to White Sand Station herself.

Mrs.

Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind.

She proceeded to speak it now,

Having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.

Well,

Marilla,

I'll just tell you plainly that I think you're doing a mighty foolish thing.

A risky thing,

That's what.

You don't know what you're getting.

You're bringing a strange child into your house and home,

And you don't know a single thing about him,

Nor what his disposition is like,

Nor what sorts of parents he had,

Nor how he's likely to turn out.

Why,

It was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the island took a boy out of an orphan asylum,

And he set fire to the house at night,

Said it on purpose,

Marilla,

And nearly burned them to a crisp in their beds.

And I know another case,

Where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs.

They couldn't break him of it.

If you had asked my advice in the matter,

Which you didn't do,

Marilla,

I'd have said for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing.

This job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla.

She knitted steadily on.

I don't deny there's something in what you say,

Rachel.

I've had some qualms myself.

But Matthew was terribly set on it.

I could see that.

So I gave in.

It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything,

That when he does,

I always feel it's my duty to give in.

And as for the risk,

There are risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world.

There are risks in people having children of their own,

If it comes to that.

They don't always turn out well.

And then Nova Scotia is right close to the island.

It isn't as if we're getting him from England or the States.

He can't be much different from ourselves.

Well,

I hope it will turn out alright,

Said Mrs.

Rachel,

In a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts.

Only don't say I didn't warn you,

If he burns Green Gables down.

I heard of a case over in New Brunswick,

Where an orphan asylum child did that,

And the whole family died in fearful agonies.

Only it was a girl in that instance.

Well,

We're not getting a girl,

Said Marilla.

I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up.

I wonder up Mrs.

Alexander Spencer for doing it.

But then she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.

Mrs.

Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan,

But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival,

She decided to go up the road to Robert Bell's and tell the news.

It would certainly make a sensation second to none,

And Mrs.

Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation.

So she took herself away,

Somewhat to Marilla's relief,

For the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving,

Under the influence of Mrs.

Rachel's pessimism.

Well,

Of all things that ever were or will be,

Exclaimed Mrs.

Rachel,

When she was safely out in the lane.

It does really seem as if I must be dreaming.

Well,

I'm sorry for that poor young one,

No mistake.

Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children,

And they'll expect him to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather,

If he ever had a grandfather,

Which is doubtful.

It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gables somehow.

There's never been one there.

For Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built.

If there ever were children,

Which is hard to believe when one looks at them,

I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything.

My,

But I pity him,

That's what.

Mrs.

Rachel spoke to the wild rosebushes,

Expressing her heartfelt thoughts,

That if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River station at that very moment,

Her pity would have been even deeper and more profound.

Chapter Two.

Matthew Cuthbert is Surprised.

Matthew Cuthbert and his chestnut mare jogged comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River.

It was a picturesque road,

Winding between snug farmsteads with occasional stretches of balsam fir woods to pass through,

And hollows where wild plums displayed their delicate blooms.

The air was fragrant with scent of numerous apple orchards,

And the meadows sloped away into the distance,

Blending into horizon mists of pearl and purple.

The little bird sang as if it were the one day of summer in all the year.

Matthew enjoyed the drive in his own way,

Except for the moments when he encountered women and had to nod to them,

For in Prince Edward Island it was customary to nod to everyone you met on the road whether you knew them or not.

Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs.

Rachel.

He had an uneasy feeling that these mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at him.

He might have been right,

For he was an odd-looking person,

With an ungainly figure,

Long iron-grey hair that touched his duping shoulders,

And a full soft brown beard he had worn since he was twenty.

In fact,

He had looked much the same at twenty as he did at sixty,

Except for a bit more grey.

When he reached Bright River,

There was no sign of any train.

He thought he was too early.

He tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River hotel and went over to the station house.

The long platform was almost deserted,

With only a girl sitting on a pile of shingles at the far end.

Matthew,

Barely noticing her,

Sidled past as quickly as possible without looking at her.

Had he looked,

He would have seen her tense rigidity and expectant expression.

She was waiting for something or someone,

And since waiting was all she could do at the moment,

She did so with all her might.

Matthew encountered the station master,

Who was locking up the ticket office and preparing to go home for supper.

He asked if the five-thirty train would be soon along.

The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago,

The brisk official answered.

But there was a passenger dropped off for you.

A little girl.

She's sitting out there on the shingles.

I asked her to go into the lady's waiting room,

But she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside.

There's more scope for imagination,

She said.

She's quite a character,

I must say.

I'm not expecting a girl,

Said Matthew blankly.

I came for a boy.

He should be here.

Mrs.

Alexander Spencer was supposed to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me.

The station master whistled.

Guess there's some mistake,

He said.

Mrs.

Spencer got off the train with that girl and put her in my charge.

She said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum,

And that you'd be along for her shortly.

That's all I know about it,

And I haven't got any more orphans hidden around here.

I don't understand,

Said Matthew helplessly,

Wishing Marilla was there to handle the situation.

Well,

You'd better question the girl,

The station master said carelessly.

I dare say she'll be able to explain.

She's got a tongue of her own,

That's certain.

Maybe they were out of boys of the type you wanted.

He walked jauntily away,

Eager for his supper,

And the unfortunate Matthew was left to do what was harder for him than facing a lion in its den.

Approach a girl,

A strange girl,

An orphan girl,

And ask her why she wasn't a boy.

Matthew groaned inwardly as he turned and shuffled down the platform towards her.

She'd been watching him since he passed her,

And she kept her eyes on him now.

Matthew wasn't looking at her,

And wouldn't have noticed her appearance even if he had,

But an ordinary observer would have seen this,

A child about eleven,

Dressed in a very short,

Very tight,

Very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincy.

She wore a faded brown sailor hat and the Nisa hat,

Extending down her back,

Were two thick braids of decidedly red hair.

Her face was small,

White and thin,

With many freckles.

Her mouth was large,

And so were her eyes,

Which looked green in some lights and gray in others.

An ordinary observer might stop there,

But an extraordinary observer might have noticed that her chin was very pointed and pronounced,

That her big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity,

That her mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive,

And that her forehead was broad and full.

In short,

A discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no ordinary soul inhabited the body of this stray child of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid.

Matthew,

However,

Was spared the ordeal of speaking first,

For as soon as she realized he was coming to her,

She stood up,

Grasping the handle of a shabby old-fashioned carpet bag with one thin brown hand and holding out the other to him.

I suppose you're Mr.

Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?

She said in a clear,

Sweet voice.

I'm very glad to see you.

I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me,

And I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you.

I had made up my mind that if you didn't come for me tonight,

I'd go down the track to that big wild cherry tree at the bend,

And climb up into it to stay all night.

I wouldn't be a bit afraid,

And it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry tree,

All white with bloom and the moonshine,

Don't you think?

You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls,

Couldn't you?

And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning if you didn't tonight.

Matthew awkwardly took her scrawny little hand.

Then and there he decided what to do.

He couldn't tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake.

He would take her home and let Marilla handle it.

She couldn't be left at Bright River anyway.

No matter what mistake had been made.

So all questions and explanations could wait until he was safely back at Green Gables.

I'm sorry I was late,

He said shyly.

Come along.

The horse is over in the yard.

Give me your bag.

Oh,

I can carry it,

The child responded cheerfully.

It isn't heavy.

I've got all my worldly goods in it,

But it's not heavy.

And if it isn't carried in just the right way,

The handle pulls out.

So I'd better keep it,

Because I know exactly how to handle it.

It's an extremely old carpet bag.

Oh,

I'm very glad you've come,

Even though it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry tree.

We have quite a journey ahead,

Don't we?

Mrs.

Spencer said it was eight miles.

I'm glad because I love traveling.

Oh,

It seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you.

I've never belonged to anybody,

Not really.

But the asylum was the worst.

I've only been there four months,

But that was enough.

I don't suppose you've ever been in an orphan asylum,

So you can't possibly understand what it's like.

It's worse than anything you can imagine.

Mrs.

Spencer said it was wrong of me to talk like that,

But I didn't mean to be bad.

It's so easy to be bad without realizing it,

Isn't it?

They were kind,

You know,

The people at the asylum.

But there's so little room for imagination in an asylum.

Only in the stories about the other orphans.

It was quite fascinating to imagine things about them.

To think maybe the girl next to you was really the daughter of a nobleman stolen from her parents as a baby by a cruel nurse who died before confessing.

I used to lie awake at night imagining such things because I didn't have time during the day.

I suppose that's why I'm so thin.

Am I terribly thin?

There's hardly anything on my bones.

I do love imagining myself plump and rosy with dimples in my elbows.

With this,

Matthew's companion stopped talking,

Partly because she was out of breath,

And partly because they had reached the buggy.

Not another word did she say until they had left the village and were driving down a steep little hill.

The road had been cut deeply into the soft soil,

With banks fringed by blooming wild cherry trees and slender white birches several feet above their heads.

The child reached out and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy.

Isn't that beautiful?

What did that tree leaning up from the bank all white and make you think of,

She asked.

Well,

Now,

I don't know,

Said Matthew.

Why a bride,

Of course.

A bride all in white with a lovely misty veil.

I've never seen one,

But I can imagine what she would look like.

I don't expect to be a bride myself.

I'm so plain,

Nobody will ever want to marry me,

Unless maybe a foreign missionary.

I suppose a foreign missionary wouldn't be very picky,

But I do hope someday I'll have a white dress.

That's my idea of earthly bliss.

I just love pretty clothes.

I've never had a pretty dress that I can remember,

But that makes it all more exciting to look forward to,

Doesn't it?

Then I can imagine myself dressed magnificently.

This morning when I left the asylum,

I felt so embarrassed because of this horrid old wincy dress.

All the orphans had to wear them,

You know.

Last winter,

A merchant in Hopeton donated 300 yards of wincy to the asylum.

Some people said it was because he couldn't sell it,

But I'd rather believe it was out of goodness of his heart,

Wouldn't you?

When we got on the train,

I felt like everyone must be staring at me and feeling sorry for me,

But I just pretended I was wearing the most beautiful pale blue silk dress,

Because when you're pretending,

You might as well imagine something grand.

And a big hat with flowers and waving feathers,

A gold watch,

Kid gloves and boots.

I felt cheered up right away and thoroughly enjoyed my trip to the island.

I didn't feel a bit seasick on the boat,

Neither did Mrs.

Spencer,

Although she usually is.

She said she didn't have time to get sick,

Wanting to make sure I didn't fall overboard.

She said she'd never seen anyone like me for prowling around,

But if it kept her from being seasick,

It was a good thing I was exploring,

Don't you think?

I wanted to see everything there was to see on that boat,

Because I didn't know if I'd ever get another chance.

Oh,

There are more cherry trees in bloom.

This island is the most blooming place.

I already love it,

And I'm so glad I'm going to live here.

I've always heard Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world,

And I used to dream of living here,

But I never really thought I would.

It's wonderful when your dreams come true,

Isn't it?

But those red roads are so strange.

When we boarded the train at Charlottetown and the red roads started flashing past,

I asked Mrs.

Spencer why they were red.

She said she didn't know,

And for pity's sake not to ask any more questions.

She said I must have asked a thousand already.

I suppose I did,

But how else are you going to learn about things if you don't ask questions?

What do you think makes the roads red?

Well,

Now,

I don't know,

Said Matthew.

Well,

That's one of the things to find out sometime.

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to discover?

It just makes me feel so glad to be alive.

It's such an interesting world.

It wouldn't be half as interesting if we knew everything,

Would it?

There'd be no room for imagination then,

Would there?

But I'm talking too much.

People always tell me I do.

Would you rather I didn't talk?

If you say so,

I'll stop.

I can stop when I make up my mind to it,

Though it's hard.

Matthew,

Much to his surprise,

Found himself enjoying the conversation.

Like most quiet folks,

He liked talkative people when they did the talking themselves,

And didn't expect them to keep up,

But he never expected to enjoy the company of a little girl.

Women were so troublesome enough,

But little girls were worse.

He disliked the way they sidled past him timidly,

With side-long glances,

As if they expected him to gobble them up if they spoke.

That was the type of well-bred little girl in Avonlea.

But this freckled witch was different,

And though he found it a challenge for his slower mind to keep up with her quick mental pace,

He found himself kind of liking her chatter.

So he said as shyly as ever,

Oh,

You can talk as much as you like.

I don't mind.

Oh,

I'm so glad.

I know you and I are going to get along fine.

It's such a relief to talk when you want to,

And not be told that children should be seen and not heard.

I've had that said to me a million times if I have once.

And people laugh at me because I use big words.

But if you have big ideas,

You have to use big words to express them,

Don't you?

Well now,

That sounds reasonable,

Said Matthew.

Mrs.

Spencer said my tongue must be hung in the middle.

But it isn't.

It's firmly fastened at one end.

Mrs.

Spencer said your place was named Green Gables.

I asked her all about it,

And she said there were trees all around it.

I was gladder than ever.

I just love trees.

There weren't any at all around the asylum.

Just a few poor little things out front with little whitewashed cages around them.

They look like orphans themselves,

Those trees did.

It used to make me want to cry to look at them.

I used to say to them,

Oh,

You poor little things.

If you were out in great big woods with other trees all around you,

Little mosses and junebells growing over your roots,

A brook not far away,

And birds singing in your branches,

You could grow,

Couldn't you?

But you can't where you are.

I know just how you feel,

Little trees.

I felt sorry to leave them behind this morning.

You do get so attached to things like that,

Don't you?

Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables?

I forgot to ask Mrs.

Spencer that.

Well now,

Yes,

There's one right below the house.

Imagine that.

It's always been one of my dreams to live near a brook.

I never thought I would though.

Dreams don't often come true,

Do they?

Wouldn't it be nice if they did?

But right now,

I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy.

I can't be exactly perfectly happy because,

Well,

What color would you call this?

She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes.

Matthew wasn't used to deciding on the shade of ladies' hair,

But in this case,

There couldn't be much doubt.

It's red,

Ain't it?

The girl at the braid dropped down with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages.

Yes,

It's red,

She said resignedly.

Now you see why I can't be perfectly happy?

Nobody could be with red hair.

I don't mind the other things so much.

The freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness.

I can imagine them away.

I can imagine I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes,

But I can't imagine away this red hair.

I do my best.

I think to myself,

Now my hair is a glorious black,

Black as the raven's wing,

But all the time I know it's just plain red and it breaks my heart.

It will be my lifelong sorrow.

I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow,

But it wasn't red hair.

Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow.

What is an alabaster brow?

I can never find out.

Can you tell me?

Well now,

I'm afraid I can't,

Said Matthew,

Who was getting a little dizzy.

He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him onto a merry-go-round at a picnic.

Well,

Whatever it was,

It must have been something nice because she was divinely beautiful.

Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?

Well now,

No,

I haven't,

Confessed Matthew,

Ingenuously.

I have,

Often.

Which would you rather be if you had a choice?

Divinely beautiful,

Dazzling clever,

Or angelically good?

Well now,

I don't know exactly.

Neither do I.

I can never decide.

But it doesn't make much real difference,

For it isn't likely I'll ever be any of them.

It's certain I'll never be angelically good.

Mrs.

Spencer says,

Oh,

Mr.

Cuthbert.

That was not what Mrs.

Spencer had said.

Neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy,

Nor had Matthew done anything remarkable.

They had simply rounded a bend in the road and found themselves on the avenue.

The avenue,

As it was called by the Newbridge people,

Was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long,

Completely arched with huge,

Wide-spreading apple trees planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer.

Overhead was one long canopy of snowy,

Fragrant bloom.

Beneath the boughs,

The air was filled with a purple twilight,

And far ahead,

A glimpse of painted sunset sky gleamed like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle.

Its beauty seemed to leave the child speechless.

She leaned back in the buggy,

Her thin hands clasped before her,

Her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above.

Even as they passed through and descended the long slope to Newbridge,

She did not move or speak.

She continued in silence through Newbridge,

A bustling village where dogs barked,

Small boys jeered,

And curious faces peered from windows.

When another three miles had slipped by,

The child still hadn't spoken.

She could keep silence as energetically as she could talk.

I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry,

Matthew ventured to say at last,

Accounting for her long silence with the only reason he could think of.

But we haven't far to go now,

Just another mile.

She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh,

And the look at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wandering far,

Led by stars.

Oh,

Mr.

Cuthbert,

She whispered,

That place we passed through,

That white place,

What was it?

Well now,

You must mean the Avenue,

Said Matthew,

After a few moments of profound reflection.

It's a sort of pretty place.

Pretty?

Oh,

Pretty doesn't seem the right word,

Nor beautiful either.

They don't go far enough.

Oh,

It was wonderful,

Wonderful.

It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be made better by imagination.

It just satisfies me here,

She placed a hand on her chest.

It made a strange pleasant ache.

Did you ever have an ache like that,

Mr.

Cuthbert?

Well now,

I can't say that I have.

I feel that way a lot,

Whenever I see something really beautiful.

But calling that lovely place the Avenue doesn't seem right.

It needs a name that fits its magic,

Like the White Way of Delight.

When I don't like a name for something or someone,

I always imagine a new one,

And think of them that way.

At the asylum,

There was a girl named Hepzibah Jenkins,

But I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere.

Others may call it Avenue,

But I'll always call it the White Way of Delight.

Are we really just one mile away from home now?

I'm glad and sad.

I'm sad because this drive has been so nice,

And I hate when pleasant things end.

Sometimes what comes after isn't as nice.

It's been my experience.

But I'm happy thinking about going home.

I haven't had a real home that I can remember.

It gives me that nice ache again,

Just thinking about a true home.

Oh,

Isn't that beautiful?

They had driven over a hilltop.

Below them lay a pond,

So long and winding it looked almost like a river.

A bridge crossed it midway,

And from there to its lower end,

Where sand dunes of amber color enclosed it from the deep blue sea beyond,

The water shimmered in many shifting hues.

Shades of crocus,

Rose,

And green,

With other elusive colors that had no name.

Above the bridge,

The pond extended into groves of fir and maple,

Its surface dark and translucent under their flickering shadows.

Occasionally,

A wild plum leaned over the bank,

Like a girl in white reaching towards her reflection.

From the marsh at the pond's head came the mournfully sweet chorus of frogs.

A small gray house peeked through a white apple orchard on a slope beyond,

And although it was not yet fully dark,

A light shone from one of its windows.

That's Barry's Pond,

Said Matthew.

Oh,

I don't like that name either.

I'll call it,

Let me think,

The Lake of Shining Waters.

Yes,

That's the right name.

I know because it gives me a thrill.

When I find a name that fits perfectly,

It thrills me.

Do things ever give you a thrill?

Matthew thought for a moment.

Well,

Now,

Yes.

I always get a thrill when I see those ugly white grubs digging in the cucumber beds.

I can't stand the sight of them.

Oh,

I don't think that's quite the same kind of thrill,

Do you?

Grubs and Lakes of Shining Waters don't seem connected at all,

Do they?

But why do other people call it Barry's Pond?

I suppose because Mr.

Barry lives up there in that house.

His place is called Orchard Slope.

If it wasn't for that big bush behind it,

You could see Green Gables from here,

But we have to go over the bridge and around by the road,

So it's almost half a mile further.

Does Mr.

Barry have any little girls?

Well,

Not very little,

About my size.

He has one who's about eleven.

Her name is Diana.

Oh,

She drew in a long breath.

What a perfectly lovely name.

Well,

Now,

I don't know.

It seems a bit unusual to me.

I'd prefer Jane or Mary,

Or some sensible name like that.

But when Diana was born,

There was a schoolmaster staying there,

And he named her Diana.

I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born.

Oh,

Here we are at the bridge.

I'm going to close my eyes tight.

I'm always scared when I go over bridges.

I imagine that maybe,

Just as we reach the middle,

It might collapse like a jackknife and crush us.

So I close my eyes.

But I always have to open them when I think we're near the middle,

Because if the bridge did collapse,

I'd want to see it happen.

What a wonderful rumble it makes.

I do love the rumble part.

Isn't it amazing that there are so many things to love in this world?

There,

We're over.

Now I'll look back.

Good night,

Dear lake of shining waters.

I always say good night to things I love,

Just like I would to people.

I think they like it.

That water looks like it's smiling at me.

As they drove up the next hill and around a bend,

Matthew said,

We're almost home now.

Green Gables is just.

Oh,

Don't tell me,

She interrupted eagerly,

Catching his arm and shutting her eyes so she wouldn't see his gesture.

Let me guess.

I'm sure I'll guess right.

She opened her eyes and looked around.

They were on top of a hill.

The sun had set some time ago,

But the landscape was still clear in the soft afterglow.

To the west,

A dark church spire rose against a sky of marigold.

Below them lay a small valley,

And beyond that,

A long,

Gently rising slope with cozy farms scattered along it.

The child's eyes darted eagerly from one to another,

Wistful and eager.

Finally,

They settled on one farm to the left,

Set back from the road,

Faintly glowing with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods.

Above it,

In the clear southwestern sky,

A large,

Crystal-white star shone like a guiding and promising lamp.

That's it,

Isn't it?

She exclaimed,

Pointing.

Matthew flicked the reins on the mare's back with joy.

Well now,

You guessed it,

But I suppose Mrs.

Spencer described it so you could tell.

No,

She didn't.

Really,

She didn't.

All she said could have been about most of those other places.

I didn't have a real idea of what it looked like,

But as soon as I saw it,

I knew it was home.

Oh,

It feels like I must be dreaming.

You know,

My arm must be black and blue from pinching myself so many times today.

Every now and then,

A horrible,

Sickening feeling would come over me,

And I was so afraid it was all a dream.

Then I'd pinch myself to see if it was real,

And suddenly I remembered that even if it was just a dream,

I should keep dreaming as long as I could,

So I stopped pinching.

But it's real,

And we're almost home.

With a sigh of delight,

She fell silent.

Matthew fidgeted uneasily.

He was glad that it would be Mirella,

Not he,

Who would have to tell this wanderer from the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all.

They drove past Lin's Hollow,

Where it was already quite dark,

But not so dark that Mrs.

Rachel could not see them from her window perch up the hill and into the long lane leading to Green Gables.

By the time they reached the house,

Matthew was shrinking from the impending revelation with an energy he did not understand.

It wasn't Mirella or himself he was worried about,

Or the trouble this mistake might cause them,

But the disappointment the child would feel.

When he thought about that light of anticipation being extinguished in her eyes,

He felt an uncomfortable sensation,

Similar to when he had to slaughter a lamb or calf,

Or any other innocent little creature.

The yard was dark as they turned into it,

And the poplar leaves rustled softly all around.

Listen to the trees talking in their sleep,

She whispered,

Gripping tightly to the carpet bag that held all her worldly goods as he helped her down from the carriage.

They must have such nice dreams.

Then she followed him into the house.

Sweet dreams,

My friend.

Sleep well.

Reviews

This is one of my favorite stories. I look forward to more chapters.

I’m happy to hear this story, enjoyed the first two chapters. Thank you,! 💜