Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery (best color ebook reader txt) 📕

Anne of Green Gables

By L. M. Montgomery.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint I: Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised II: Matthew Cuthbert Is Surprised III: Marilla Cuthbert Is Surprised IV: Morning at Green Gables V: Anne’s History VI: Marilla Makes Up Her Mind VII: Anne Says Her Prayers VIII: Anne’s Bringing-Up Is Begun IX: Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified X: Anne’s Apology XI: Anne’s Impressions of Sunday-School XII: A Solemn Vow and Promise XIII: The Delights of Anticipation XIV: Anne’s Confession XV: A Tempest in the School Teapot XVI: Diana Is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results XVII: A New Interest in Life XVIII: Anne to the Rescue XIX: A Concert, a Catastrophe, and a Confession XX: A Good Imagination Gone Wrong XXI: A New Departure in Flavorings XXII: Anne Is Invited Out to Tea XXIII: Anne Comes to Grief in an Affair of Honor XXIV: Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert XXV: Matthew Insists on Puffed Sleeves XXVI: The Story Club Is Formed XXVII: Vanity and Vexation of Spirit XXVIII: An Unfortunate Lily Maid XXIX: An Epoch in Anne’s Life XXX: The Queen’s Class Is Organized XXXI: Where the Brook and River Meet XXXII: The Pass List Is Out XXXIII: The Hotel Concert XXXIV: A Queen’s Girl XXXV: The Winter at Queen’s XXXVI: The Glory and the Dream XXXVII: The Reaper Whose Name Is Death XXXVIII: The Bend in the Road Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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I 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 traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbor’s business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she “ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts⁠—she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed 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 of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel’s all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde⁠—a meek little man whom Avonlea people called “Rachel Lynde’s husband”⁠—was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair’s store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?

Had