“Doyouknow,”saidAnneconfidentially,“I’vemadeupmymindtoenjoythisdrive. It’sbeenmyexperiencethatyoucannearlyalwaysenjoythingsifyoumakeupyourmindfirmlythatyouwill.Ofcourse,youmustmakeitupFIRMLY. Iamnotgoingtothinkaboutgoingbacktotheasylumwhilewe’rehavingourdrive. I’mjustgoingtothinkaboutthedrive. Oh,look,there’sonelittleearlywildroseout!Isn’titlovely? Don’tyouthinkitmustbegladtobearose? Wouldn’titbeniceifrosescouldtalk? I’msuretheycouldtellussuchlovelythings. Andisn’tpinkthemostbewitchingcolorintheworld?Iloveit,butIcan’twearit. Redheadedpeoplecan’twearpink,noteveninimagination. Didyoueverknowofanybodywhosehairwasredwhenshewasyoung,butgottobeanothercolorwhenshegrewup?” “No,Idon’tknowasIeverdid,”saidMarillamercilessly,“andIshouldn’tthinkitlikelytohappeninyourcaseeither.” “Well,thatisanotherhopegone.‘Mylifeisaperfectgraveyardofburiedhopes.’That’sasentenceIreadinabookonce,andIsayitovertocomfortmyselfwheneverI’mdisappointedinanything.” “Idon’tseewherethecomfortingcomesinmyself,”saidMarilla. “Why,becauseitsoundssoniceandromantic,justasifIwereaheroineinabook,youknow. Iamsofondofromanticthings,andagraveyardfullofburiedhopesisaboutasromanticathingasonecanimagineisn’tit?I’mrathergladIhaveone. ArewegoingacrosstheLakeofShiningWaterstoday?” “We’renotgoingoverBarry’spond,ifthat’swhatyoumeanbyyourLakeofShiningWaters.We’regoingbytheshoreroad.” “Shoreroadsoundsnice,”saidAnnedreamily.“Isitasniceasitsounds? Justwhenyousaid‘shoreroad’Isawitinapictureinmymind,asquickasthat! AndWhiteSandsisaprettyname,too;butIdon’tlikeitaswellasAvonlea.Avonleaisalovelyname.Itjustsoundslikemusic.HowfarisittoWhiteSands?” “It’sfivemiles;andasyou’reevidentlybentontalkingyoumightaswelltalktosomepurposebytellingmewhatyouknowaboutyourself.” “Oh,whatIKNOWaboutmyselfisn’treallyworthtelling,”saidAnneeagerly.“Ifyou’llonlyletmetellyouwhatIIMAGINEaboutmyselfyou’llthinkiteversomuchmoreinteresting.” “No,Idon’twantanyofyourimaginings.Justyousticktobaldfacts.Beginatthebeginning.Wherewereyoubornandhowoldareyou?” “IwaselevenlastMarch,”saidAnne,resigningherselftobaldfactswithalittlesigh. “AndIwasborninBolingbroke,NovaScotia. Myfather’snamewasWalterShirley,andhewasateacherintheBolingbrokeHighSchool.Mymother’snamewasBerthaShirley.Aren’tWalterandBerthalovelynames?I’msogladmyparentshadnicenames. Itwouldbearealdisgracetohaveafathernamed—well,sayJedediah,wouldn’tit?” “Iguessitdoesn’tmatterwhataperson’snameisaslongashebehaveshimself,”saidMarilla,feelingherselfcalledupontoinculcateagoodandusefulmoral. “Well,Idon’tknow.”Annelookedthoughtful. “Ireadinabookoncethatarosebyanyothernamewouldsmellassweet,butI’veneverbeenabletobelieveit. Idon’tbelievearoseWOULDbeasniceifitwascalledathistleoraskunkcabbage. IsupposemyfathercouldhavebeenagoodmanevenifhehadbeencalledJedediah;butI’msureitwouldhavebeenacross. Well,mymotherwasateacherintheHighschool,too,butwhenshemarriedfathershegaveupteaching,ofcourse.Ahusbandwasenoughresponsibility. Mrs.Thomassaidthattheywereapairofbabiesandaspooraschurchmice. Theywenttoliveinaweeny-teenylittleyellowhouseinBolingbroke. I’veneverseenthathouse,butI’veimagineditthousandsoftimes. Ithinkitmusthavehadhoneysuckleovertheparlorwindowandlilacsinthefrontyardandliliesofthevalleyjustinsidethegate. Yes,andmuslincurtainsinallthewindows. Muslincurtainsgiveahousesuchanair.Iwasborninthathouse. Mrs.ThomassaidIwasthehomeliestbabysheeversaw,Iwassoscrawnyandtinyandnothingbuteyes,butthatmotherthoughtIwasperfectlybeautiful. Ishouldthinkamotherwouldbeabetterjudgethanapoorwomanwhocameintoscrub,wouldn’tyou? I’mgladshewassatisfiedwithmeanyhow,IwouldfeelsosadifIthoughtIwasadisappointmenttoher—becauseshedidn’tliveverylongafterthat,yousee. ShediedoffeverwhenIwasjustthreemonthsold. Idowishshe’dlivedlongenoughformetoremembercallinghermother. Ithinkitwouldbesosweettosay‘mother,’don’tyou? Andfatherdiedfourdaysafterwardsfromfevertoo. Thatleftmeanorphanandfolkswereattheirwits’end,soMrs.Thomassaid,whattodowithme.Yousee,nobodywantedmeeventhen.Itseemstobemyfate. Fatherandmotherhadbothcomefromplacesfarawayanditwaswellknowntheyhadn’tanyrelativesliving. FinallyMrs.Thomassaidshe’dtakeme,thoughshewaspoorandhadadrunkenhusband.Shebroughtmeupbyhand. Doyouknowifthereisanythinginbeingbroughtupbyhandthatoughttomakepeoplewhoarebroughtupthatwaybetterthanotherpeople? BecausewheneverIwasnaughtyMrs.ThomaswouldaskmehowIcouldbesuchabadgirlwhenshehadbroughtmeupbyhand—reproachful-like. “Mr.andMrs.ThomasmovedawayfromBolingbroketoMarysville,andIlivedwiththemuntilIwaseightyearsold. IhelpedlookaftertheThomaschildren—therewerefourofthemyoungerthanme—andIcantellyoutheytookalotoflookingafter. ThenMr.ThomaswaskilledfallingunderatrainandhismotherofferedtotakeMrs.Thomasandthechildren,butshedidn’twantme. Mrs.ThomaswasatHERwits’end,soshesaid,whattodowithme. ThenMrs.Hammondfromuptherivercamedownandsaidshe’dtakeme,seeingIwashandywithchildren,andIwentuptherivertolivewithherinalittleclearingamongthestumps.Itwasaverylonesomeplace. I’msureIcouldneverhavelivedthereifIhadn’thadanimagination. Mr.Hammondworkedalittlesawmillupthere,andMrs.Hammondhadeightchildren.Shehadtwinsthreetimes. Ilikebabiesinmoderation,buttwinsthreetimesinsuccessionisTOOMUCH. ItoldMrs.Hammondsofirmly,whenthelastpaircame. Iusedtogetsodreadfullytiredcarryingthemabout. “IlivedupriverwithMrs.Hammondovertwoyears,andthenMr.HammonddiedandMrs.Hammondbrokeuphousekeeping. ShedividedherchildrenamongherrelativesandwenttotheStates. IhadtogototheasylumatHopeton,becausenobodywouldtakeme. Theydidn’twantmeattheasylum,either;theysaidtheywereover-crowdedasitwas. ButtheyhadtotakemeandIwastherefourmonthsuntilMrs.Spencercame.” Annefinishedupwithanothersigh,ofreliefthistime.Evidentlyshedidnotliketalkingaboutherexperiencesinaworldthathadnotwantedher. “Didyouevergotoschool?”demandedMarilla,turningthesorrelmaredowntheshoreroad. “Notagreatdeal.IwentalittlethelastyearIstayedwithMrs.Thomas. WhenIwentupriverweweresofarfromaschoolthatIcouldn’twalkitinwinterandtherewasavacationinsummer,soIcouldonlygointhespringandfall. ButofcourseIwentwhileIwasattheasylum. IcanreadprettywellandIknoweversomanypiecesofpoetryoffbyheart—’TheBattleofHohenlinden’and‘EdinburghafterFlodden,’and‘BingenoftheRhine,’andmostofthe‘LadyoftheLake’andmostof‘TheSeasons’byJamesThompson. Don’tyoujustlovepoetrythatgivesyouacrinklyfeelingupanddownyourback? ThereisapieceintheFifthReader—’TheDownfallofPoland’—thatisjustfullofthrills. Ofcourse,Iwasn’tintheFifthReader—IwasonlyintheFourth—butthebiggirlsusedtolendmetheirstoread.” “Werethosewomen—Mrs.ThomasandMrs.Hammond—goodtoyou?”askedMarilla,lookingatAnneoutofthecornerofhereye. “O-o-o-h,”falteredAnne.Hersensitivelittlefacesuddenlyflushedscarletandembarrassmentsatonherbrow. “Oh,theyMEANTtobe—Iknowtheymeanttobejustasgoodandkindaspossible. Andwhenpeoplemeantobegoodtoyou,youdon’tmindverymuchwhenthey’renotquite—always. Theyhadagooddealtoworrythem,youknow. It’sverytryingtohaveadrunkenhusband,yousee;anditmustbeverytryingtohavetwinsthreetimesinsuccession,don’tyouthink? ButIfeelsuretheymeanttobegoodtome.” Marillaaskednomorequestions.AnnegaveherselfuptoasilentraptureovertheshoreroadandMarillaguidedthesorrelabstractedlywhileshepondereddeeply. Pitywassuddenlystirringinherheartforthechild. Whatastarved,unlovedlifeshehadhad—alifeofdrudgeryandpovertyandneglect;forMarillawasshrewdenoughtoreadbetweenthelinesofAnne’shistoryanddivinethetruth. Nowondershehadbeensodelightedattheprospectofarealhome.Itwasapityshehadtobesentback. Whatifshe,Marilla,shouldindulgeMatthew’sunaccountablewhimandletherstay? Hewassetonit;andthechildseemedanice,teachablelittlething. “She’sgottoomuchtosay,”thoughtMarilla,“butshemightbetrainedoutofthat.Andthere’snothingrudeorslangyinwhatshedoessay.She’sladylike.It’slikelyherpeoplewerenicefolks.” Theshoreroadwas“woodsyandwildandlonesome.” Ontherighthand,scrubfirs,theirspiritsquiteunbrokenbylongyearsoftusslewiththegulfwinds,grewthickly. Ontheleftwerethesteepredsandstonecliffs,sonearthetrackinplacesthatamareoflesssteadinessthanthesorrelmighthavetriedthenervesofthepeoplebehindher. Downatthebaseofthecliffswereheapsofsurf-wornrocksorlittlesandycovesinlaidwithpebblesaswithoceanjewels;beyondlaythesea,shimmeringandblue,andoveritsoaredthegulls,theirpinionsflashingsilveryinthesunlight. “Isn’ttheseawonderful?”saidAnne,rousingfromalong,wide-eyedsilence. “Once,whenIlivedinMarysville,Mr.Thomashiredanexpresswagonandtookusalltospendthedayattheshoretenmilesaway. Ienjoyedeverymomentofthatday,evenifIhadtolookafterthechildrenallthetime. Iliveditoverinhappydreamsforyears. ButthisshoreisnicerthantheMarysvilleshore.Aren’tthosegullssplendid?Wouldyouliketobeagull? IthinkIwould—thatis,ifIcouldn’tbeahumangirl. Don’tyouthinkitwouldbenicetowakeupatsunriseandswoopdownoverthewaterandawayoutoverthatlovelyblueallday;andthenatnighttoflybacktoone’snest?Oh,Icanjustimaginemyselfdoingit. Whatbighouseisthatjustahead,please?” “That’stheWhiteSandsHotel.Mr.Kirkerunsit,buttheseasonhasn’tbegunyet.ThereareheapsofAmericanscomethereforthesummer.Theythinkthisshoreisjustaboutright.” “IwasafraiditmightbeMrs.Spencer’splace,”saidAnnemournfully.“Idon’twanttogetthere.Somehow,itwillseemliketheendofeverything.” 
