One evening, when the sky’s limpid bowl was filled with red glory, and the robins were thrilling the golden twilight with jubilant hymns to the stars of evening, there was a sudden commotion in the little house of dreams.
The last day of the old year was one of those bright, cold dazzling winter days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love.
She said we couldn’t be too careful what habits we formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the time we were twenty our characters would be developed and the foundation laid for our whole future life. And she said if the foundation was shaky we could never build anything really worth while on it.
Trees aren’t much company, though dear knows if they were there’d be enough of them.
And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things.
But she remembered in time that she had an imagination and could use it.
There is something in me today that makes just love everybody I see.
Ah yes, you’re young enough not to be afraid of perfect things.
You never knew how beautiful a tree really was until you saw it leafless against a pearl-grey winter sky.
I do NOT like patchwork,” said Anne dolefully, hunting out her workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. “I think some kinds of sewing would be nice; but there’s no scope for imagination in patchwork. It’s just one little seam after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere. But of course I’d rather be Anne of Green Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing to do but play.
It seemed like a garden where no frost could wither or rough wind blow – a garden remembering a hundred vanished summers.
Because when you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worthwhile.
But we can’t have things perfect in this imperfect world.
Once in the night she wakened and a flood of desolation poured over her. But in the darkness she heard a melodious purring and felt the beautiful touch of a velvet cat.
It is a pity to gather wood-flowers. They lose half their witchery away from the green and the flicker. The way to enjoy wood-flowers is to track them down to their remote haunts – gloat over them – and then leave them with backward glances, taking with us only the beguiling memory of their grace and fragrance.
She surrendered herself utterly to the charm of the moment.
The sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet, was showering over the red brick buildings of Queenslea College, and the grounds about them, throwing through the bare, budding maples and elms, delicate, evasive etchings of gold and brown on the paths, and coaxing into life the daffodils that were peering greenly and perkily up under the windows of the co-eds’ dressing-room.
Oh, they meant to be – I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don’t mind very much when they’re not quite – always.
One dim wet evening in early spring, when a shabby old world was trying to wash the winter grime from its face before it must welcome April, there was wild music among the birches.
Doesn’t Mr. Allan preach magnificent sermons? Mrs. Lynde says he is improving every day and the first thing we know some city church will gobble him up and then we’ll be left and have to turn to and break in another green peacher. But I don’t see the use of meeting trouble halfway, do you, Marilla? I think it would be better just to enjoy Mr. Allan while we have him.