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- Аня из Авонлеи
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- Стр. 27/198
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“
Ask
me
that
a
month
later
and
I
may
be
able
to
tell
you
.
I
can
’
t
now
.
.
.
I
don
’
t
know
myself
.
.
.
I
’
m
too
near
it
.
My
thoughts
feel
as
if
they
had
been
all
stirred
up
until
they
were
thick
and
muddy
.
The
only
thing
I
feel
really
sure
of
having
accomplished
today
is
that
I
taught
Cliffie
Wright
that
A
is
A
.
He
never
knew
it
before
.
Isn
’
t
it
something
to
have
started
a
soul
along
a
path
that
may
end
in
Shakespeare
and
Paradise
Lost
?
”
Mrs
.
Lynde
came
up
later
on
with
more
encouragement
.
That
good
lady
had
waylaid
the
schoolchildren
at
her
gate
and
demanded
of
them
how
they
liked
their
new
teacher
.
“
And
every
one
of
them
said
they
liked
you
splendid
,
Anne
,
except
Anthony
Pye
.
I
must
admit
he
didn
’
t
.
He
said
you
‘
weren
’
t
any
good
,
just
like
all
girl
teachers
.
’
There
’
s
the
Pye
leaven
for
you
.
But
never
mind
.
”
“
I
’
m
not
going
to
mind
,
”
said
Anne
quietly
,
“
and
I
’
m
going
to
make
Anthony
Pye
like
me
yet
.
Patience
and
kindness
will
surely
win
him
”
“
Well
,
you
can
never
tell
about
a
Pye
,
”
said
Mrs
.
Rachel
cautiously
.
“
They
go
by
contraries
,
like
dreams
,
often
as
not
.
As
for
that
DonNELL
woman
,
she
’
ll
get
no
DonNELLing
from
me
,
I
can
assure
you
.
The
name
is
DONnell
and
always
has
been
.
The
woman
is
crazy
,
that
’
s
what
.
She
has
a
pug
dog
she
calls
Queenie
and
it
has
its
meals
at
the
table
along
with
the
family
,
eating
off
a
china
plate
.
I
’
d
be
afraid
of
a
judgment
if
I
was
her
.
Thomas
says
Donnell
himself
is
a
sensible
,
hard
-
working
man
,
but
he
hadn
’
t
much
gumption
when
he
picked
out
a
wife
,
that
’
s
what
.
”
A
September
day
on
Prince
Edward
Island
hills
;
a
crisp
wind
blowing
up
over
the
sand
dunes
from
the
sea
;
a
long
red
road
,
winding
through
fields
and
woods
,
now
looping
itself
about
a
corner
of
thick
set
spruces
,
now
threading
a
plantation
of
young
maples
with
great
feathery
sheets
of
ferns
beneath
them
,
now
dipping
down
into
a
hollow
where
a
brook
flashed
out
of
the
woods
and
into
them
again
,
now
basking
in
open
sunshine
between
ribbons
of
golden
-
rod
and
smoke
-
blue
asters
;
air
athrill
with
the
pipings
of
myriads
of
crickets
,
those
glad
little
pensioners
of
the
summer
hills
;
a
plump
brown
pony
ambling
along
the
road
;
two
girls
behind
him
,
full
to
the
lips
with
the
simple
,
priceless
joy
of
youth
and
life
.
“
Oh
,
this
is
a
day
left
over
from
Eden
,
isn
’
t
it
,
Diana
?
”
.
.
.
and
Anne
sighed
for
sheer
happiness
.
“
The
air
has
magic
in
it
.
Look
at
the
purple
in
the
cup
of
the
harvest
valley
,
Diana
.
And
oh
,
do
smell
the
dying
fir
!
It
’
s
coming
up
from
that
little
sunny
hollow
where
Mr
.
Eben
Wright
has
been
cutting
fence
poles
.
Bliss
is
it
on
such
a
day
to
be
alive
;
but
to
smell
dying
fir
is
very
heaven
.
That
’
s
two
thirds
Wordsworth
and
one
third
Anne
Shirley
.
It
doesn
’
t
seem
possible
that
there
should
be
dying
fir
in
heaven
,
does
it
?
And
yet
it
doesn
’
t
seem
to
me
that
heaven
would
be
quite
perfect
if
you
couldn
’
t
get
a
whiff
of
dead
fir
as
you
went
through
its
woods
.
Perhaps
we
’
ll
have
the
odor
there
without
the
death
.
Yes
,
I
think
that
will
be
the
way
.
That
delicious
aroma
must
be
the
souls
of
the
firs
.
.
.
and
of
course
it
will
be
just
souls
in
heaven
.
”
“
Trees
haven
’
t
souls
,
”
said
practical
Diana
,
“
but
the
smell
of
dead
fir
is
certainly
lovely
.
I
’
m
going
to
make
a
cushion
and
fill
it
with
fir
needles
.
You
’
d
better
make
one
too
,
Anne
.
”
