Dramatis Personae: Anne/Narrator: read by Arielle Lipshaw

Marilla Cuthbert: read by Elizabeth Klett Matthew Cuthbert: read by Bruce Pirie

Mrs. Rachel Lynde: read by Amy Gramour Diana Barry: read by Sally McConnell

Gilbert Blythe: read by mb Stationmaster: read by Phil Chenevert

Mrs. Spencer: read by Sally McConnell Flora Jane Spencer: read by sherlock85

Mrs. Blewett: read by Tricia G Mrs. Barry: read by Linette Geisel

Mr. Phillips: read by David Lawrence Jimmy Glover/Boys: read by Peter Bishop

Ruby Gillis: read by ESFJ Girl Doctor: read by Phil Chenevert

Miss Josephine Barry: read by ashleyspence Mrs. Allan: read by Sarah Jennings

Josie Pye: read by rashada Carrie Sloane: read by Laura Payne

Miss Lucilla Harris: read by Sally McConnell Jane Andrews: read by Elizabeth Barr

Miss Stacy: read by Amy Gramour Moody Spurgeon McPherson: read by Peter Bishop

Lady: read by Availle CHAPTER I. Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised

MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow,

fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source

away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate,

headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and

cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little

stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard

for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window,

keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she

noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the

whys and wherefores thereof.

There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their

neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of

those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into

the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she

“ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop

of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found

abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts—she

had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices—and keeping

a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill

beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St.

Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass

over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye.

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window

warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white

bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde—a meek little man whom Avonlea people

called “Rachel Lynde's husband”—was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field

beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook

field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him

tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody

that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course,

for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in

his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly

driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of

clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy

and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now,

where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?

Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together,

might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went

from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the

shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have

to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something

that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and

her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled.

“I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's

gone and why,” the worthy woman finally concluded. “He doesn't generally go to

town this time of year and he never visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't

dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going

for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean

puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until

I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.”

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling,

orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the

road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew

Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as

he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he

founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and

there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea

houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place

living at all.

“It's just staying, that's what,” she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted,

grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. “It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are

both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though

dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be

sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can

get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.”

With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green

and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows

and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for

Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that

Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten

a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt.

Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so.

The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment—or would have been cheerful if

it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused

parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back

yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse

of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down

in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert,

when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing

and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here

she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper.

Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything

that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some

one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple

preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular

company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting

fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.

“Good evening, Rachel,” Marilla said briskly. “This is a real fine evening, isn't it?

Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?”

Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always

had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of—or perhaps because of—their

dissimilarity.

Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some

gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins

stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid

conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if

it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense

of humor.

“We're all pretty well,” said Mrs. Rachel. “I was kind of afraid you weren't, though,

when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's.”

Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known

that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's

curiosity.

“Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,” she said. “Matthew

went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and

he's coming on the train tonight.”

If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia

Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds.

It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced

to suppose it.

“Are you in earnest, Marilla?” she demanded when voice returned to her.

“Yes, of course,” said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia

were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being

an unheard of innovation.

Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points.

A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum!

Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after

this! Nothing!

“What on earth put such a notion into your head?” she demanded disapprovingly.

This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved.

“Well, we've been thinking about it for some time—all winter in fact,” returned

Marilla. “Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said

she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her

cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and

I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting

up in years, you know—he's sixty—and he isn't so spry as he once was. His heart

troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it's got to be to get hired

help. There's never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys;

and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off

to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy.

But I said 'no' flat to that. 'They may be all right—I'm not saying they're

not—but no London street Arabs for me,' I said. 'Give me a native born at least.

There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep

sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.' So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer

to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was

going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely

boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age—old enough to be of

some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to

give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today—the

mail-man brought it from the station—saying they were coming on the five-thirty train

tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there.

Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself.”

Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having

adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.

“Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish

thing—a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what you're getting. You're

bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don't know a single thing about

him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he's likely

to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up

west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night—set

it on purpose, Marilla—and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know

another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs—they couldn't break him

of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter—which you didn't do, Marilla—I'd have said

for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing, that's what.”

This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily

on.

“I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself.

But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew

sets his mind on anything that when he does I always feel it's my duty to give in. And

as for the risk, there's risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world.

There's risks in people's having children of their own if it comes to that—they don't

always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island. It isn't as

if we were getting him from England or the States. He can't be much different from

ourselves.”

“Well, I hope it will turn out all right,” said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated

her painful doubts. “Only don't say I didn't warn you if he burns Green Gables

down or puts strychnine in the well—I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan

asylum child did that and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it was a girl

in that instance.”

“Well, we're not getting a girl,” said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely

feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. “I'd never dream

of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there,

she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.”

Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan.

But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival she concluded