but there couldn t be anything better than Mayflowers, could there,
Marilla? And Diana says if they don t know what they are like they don t
miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it
would be _tragic_, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and _not_
to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think
they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this
is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our
lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well--such a _romantic_ spot.
Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because
he wouldn t take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very _fashionable_
to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews
and I heard him to say sweets to the sweet. He got that out of a
book, I know; but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some
Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can t tell you the
person s name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We
made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats; and when the
time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two,
with our bouquets and wreaths, singing My Home on the Hill. Oh, it was
so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane s folks rushed out to see us
and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a
real sensation.
Not much wonder! Such silly doings! was Marilla s response.
After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled
with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent
steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground.
Somehow, she told Diana, when I m going through here I don t really
care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But
when I m up in school it s all different and I care as much as ever.
There s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is
why I m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would
be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn t be half so
interesting.
One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the
frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the
Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover
fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window.
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