It's Rather Hard To Decide Just When

It Was November--the Month Of Crimson Sunsets, Parting Birds, Deep, Sad Hymns Of The Sea, Passionate Wind-songs In The Pines. Anne Roamed Through The Pineland Alleys In The Park And, As She Said, Let That Great Sweeping Wind Blow The Fogs Out Of Her Soul.

Poor Soul, She Always Knew Everything About Her Neighbors, But She Never Was Very Well Acquainted With Herself.

Marilla Felt More Embarrassed Than Ever. She Had Intended To Teach Anne The Childish Classic, "now I Lay Me Down To Sleep." But She Had, As I Have Told You, The Glimmerings Of A Sense Of Humor--which Is Simply Another Name For A Sense Of The Fitness Of Things; And It Suddenly Occurred To Her That Simple Little Prayer, Sacred To The White-robed Childhood Lisping At Motherly Knees, Was Entirely Unsuited To This Freckled Witch Of A Girl Who Knew And Cared Nothing About God's Love, Since She Had Never Had It Translated To Her Through The Medium Of Human Love.

It's Not Vanity To Know Your Own Good Points. It Would Just Be Stupidity If You Didn't; It's Only Vanity When You Get Puffed Up About Them.

It Would Be Lovely To Sleep In A Wild Cherry-tree All White With Bloom In The Moonshine