This memoir offers a charming and intimate look into the life and career of one of literature's most cherished writers, Lucy Maud Montgomery, the author of the Anne of Green Gables series. In this captivating narrative, Montgomery takes readers on a journey through her childhood, filled with dreams and imaginings that would later shape her literary voice. She vividly recounts her early years on Prince Edward Island, sharing the experiences and influences that sparked her love for storytelling. As Montgomery progresses from a young girl with a passion for writing to a celebrated author, she candidly describes the challenges and triumphs she faced along the way. Her inspirational road to literary success is a testament to her perseverance, creativity, and unwavering belief in her craft. Originally published as a series of autobiographical essays in the Toronto magazine Everywoman’s World from June to November in 1917, The Alpine Path: The Story of My Career not only provides valuable insights into Montgomery's personal and professional life but also serves as an encouraging tale for aspiring writers and dreamers.
"Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908" is a collection of short stories written by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery. Montgomery is best known for her beloved novel series, "Anne of Green Gables." However, she also wrote numerous short stories throughout her career. The collection "Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908" includes stories written by Montgomery during the years 1907 and 1908. These stories, like many of Montgomery's works, often incorporate themes of love, romance, family dynamics, and the challenges faced by young women in early 20th-century society. Montgomery's vivid storytelling and descriptive writing style make her short stories engaging and captivating. It's important to note that the specific stories included in "Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908" may vary based on the edition or publication. However, this collection is a valuable glimpse into Montgomery's early literary career and showcases her talent for crafting engaging narratives.
Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 showcases the enchanting narrative style of L. M. Montgomery, inviting readers to explore a collection of her captivating tales from the early 20th century. These stories transport you to the idyllic landscapes of Prince Edward Island, where themes of love, friendship, and the complexities of life unfold with warmth and humor. Montgomery’s characters are vividly drawn, each embodying the struggles and joys of everyday life. From spirited young girls to wise old women, her stories reflect the essence of human experience, capturing the nuances of emotions and relationships. With her trademark lyrical prose, Montgomery weaves tales that resonate with nostalgia and timeless wisdom. Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 is celebrated for its rich storytelling and the author’s keen observations of nature and society. This collection not only showcases Montgomery’s literary talent but also provides a glimpse into the cultural and social dynamics of her time, making it a must-read for fans of classic literature. Readers are drawn to Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 for its enchanting narratives and relatable characters. This collection is essential for those seeking to escape into a world of imagination and charm, where each story offers a new perspective on life’s adventures. It serves as a heartfelt reminder of the beauty found in ordinary moments. Owning a copy of Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 invites you to experience the magic of Montgomery’s storytelling. Are you ready to immerse yourself in a collection that celebrates the joys and sorrows of life through the eyes of unforgettable characters?
Mary Isabel's face was flushed and her wood-brown eyes looked grieved and pleading. Mary Isabel was still pretty, and vanity is the last thing to desert a properly constructed woman. "I can't wear a bonnet yet, Louisa," she protested. "Bonnets have gone out for everybody except really old ladies. I want a hat: one of those pretty, floppy ones with pale blue forget-me-nots."
1001 Children's Books You Must Read Before You Grow Up is the perfect introduction to the very best books of childhood: those books that have a special place in the heart of every reader. It introduces a wonderfully rich world of literature to parents and their children, offering both new titles and much-loved classics that many generations have read and enjoyed. From wordless picture books and books introducing the first words and sounds of the alphabet through to hard-hitting and edgy teenage fiction, the titles featured in this book reflect the wealth of reading opportunities for children.Browsing the titles in 1001 Children's Books You Must Read Before You Grow Up will take you on a journey of discovery into fantasy, adventure, history, contermporary life, and much more. These books will enable you to travel to some of the most famous imaginary worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth, and Hogwart's School. And the route taken may be pretty strange, too. You may fall down a rabbit hole, as Alice does on her way to Wonderland, or go through the back of a wardrobe to reach the snowy wastes of Narnia.
She welcomed me kindly but absent-mindedly, her thoughts evidently being concentrated on the problem of getting my trunk home. I had only the one, and in Montreal it had seemed to be of moderate size; but on the platform of Copely station, sized up by Aunt Philippa's merciless eye, it certainly looked huge.
Jims was bitterly disappointed. If Uncle Walter had been home Jims would have appealed to him—for when Uncle Walter could be really wakened up to a realization of his small nephew's presence in his home, he was very kind and indulgent. But it was so hard to waken him up that Jims seldom attempted it. He liked Uncle Walter, but as far as being acquainted with him went he might as well have been the inhabitant of a star in the Milky Way. Jims was just a lonely, solitary little creature, and sometimes he felt so friendless that his eyes smarted, and several sobs had to be swallowed.
Short Stories Lucy Maud Montgomery The land dropped abruptly down from the gate, and a thick, shrubby growth of young apple orchard almost hid the little weather-grey house from the road. This was why the young man who opened the sagging gate could not see that it was boarded up, and did not cease his cheerful whistling until he had pressed through the crowding trees and found himself almost on the sunken stone doorstep over which in olden days honeysuckle had been wont to arch. Now only a few straggling, uncared-for vines clung forlornly to the shingles, and the windows were, as has been said, all boarded up. The whistle died on the young man's lips and an expression of blank astonishment and dismay settled down on his face-a good, kindly, honest face it was, although perhaps it did not betoken any pronounced mental gifts on the part of its owner. "What can have happened?" he said to himself. "Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally can't be dead-I'd have seen their deaths in the paper if they was. And I'd athought if they'd moved away it'd been printed too. They can't have been gone long-that flower-bed must have been made up last spring. Well, this is a kind of setback for a fellow. Here I've been tramping all the way from the station, athinking how good it would be to see Aunt Sally's sweet old face again, and hear Uncle Tom's laugh, and all I find is a boarded-up house going to seed.S'pose I might as well toddle over to Stetsons' and inquire if they haven't disappeared, too." He went through the old firs back of the lot and across the field to a rather shabby house beyond. A cheery-faced woman answered his knock and looked at him in a puzzled fashion. "Have you forgot me, Mrs. Stetson? Don't you remember Lovell Stevens and how you used to give him plum tarts when he'd bring your turkeys home?" Mrs. Stetson caught both his hands in a hearty clasp. "I guess I haven't forgotten!" she declared. "Well, well, and you're Lovell! I think I ought to know your face, though you've changed a lot. Fifteen years have made a big difference in you. Come right in. Pa, this is Lovell-you mind Lovell, the boy Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom had for years?" "Reckon I do," drawled Jonah Stetson with a friendly grin. "Ain't likely to forget some of the capers you used to be cutting up. You've filled out considerable. Where have you been for the last ten years? Aunt Sally fretted a lot over you, thinking you was dead or gone to the bad." Lovell's face clouded. "I know I ought to have written," he said repentantly, "but you know I'm a terrible poor scholar, and I'd do most anything than try to write a letter. But where's Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally gone? Surely they ain't dead?" "No," said Jonah Stetson slowly, "no-but I guess they'd rather be. They're in the poorhouse." "The poorhouse! Aunt Sally in the poorhouse!" exclaimed Lovell. "Yes, and it's a burning shame," declared Mrs. Stetson. "Aunt Sally's just breaking her heart from the disgrace of it. But it didn't seem as if it could be helped. Uncle Tom got so crippled with rheumatism he couldn't work and Aunt Sally was too frail to do anything. They hadn't any relations and there was a mortgage on the house." "There wasn't any when I went away." "No they had to borrow money six years ago when Uncle Tom had his first spell of rheumatic fever. This spring it was clear that there was nothing for them but the poorhouse.
It was the forenoon of a hazy, breathless day, and Dan Phillips was trouting up one of the back creeks of the Carleton pond. It was somewhat cooler up the creek than out on the main body of water, for the tall birches and willows, crowding down to the brim, threw cool, green shadows across it and shut out the scorching glare, while a stray breeze now and then rippled down the wooded slopes, rustling the beech leaves with an airy, pleasant sound. Out in the pond the glassy water creamed and shimmered in the hot sun, unrippled by the faintest breath of air. Across the soft, pearly tints of the horizon blurred the smoke of the big factory chimneys that were owned by Mr. Walters, to whom the pond and adjacent property also belonged. Mr. Walters was a comparative stranger in Carleton, having but recently purchased the factories from the heirs of the previous owner; but he had been in charge long enough to establish a reputation for sternness and inflexibility in all his business dealings. One or two of his employees, who had been discharged by him on what they deemed insufficient grounds, helped to deepen the impression that he was an unjust and arbitrary man, merciless to all offenders, and intolerant of the slightest infringement of his cast-iron rules. Dan Phillips had been on the pond ever since sunrise. The trout had risen well in the early morning, but as the day wore on, growing hotter and hotter, they refused to bite, and for half an hour Dan had not caught one. He had a goodly string of them already, however, and he surveyed them with satisfaction as he rowed his leaky little skiff to the shore of the creek. "Pretty good catch," he soliloquized. "Best I've had this summer, so far. That big spotted one must weigh near a pound. He's a beauty. They're a good price over at the hotels now, too. I'll go home and get my dinner and go straight over with them. That'll leave me time for another try at them about sunset. Whew, how hot it is! I must take Ella May home a bunch of them blue flags. They're real handsome!" He tied his skiff under the crowding alders, gathered a big bunch of the purple flag lilies with their silky petals, and started homeward, whistling cheerily as he stepped briskly along the fern-carpeted wood path that wound up the hill under the beeches and firs. He was a freckled, sunburned lad of thirteen years. His neighbours all said that Danny was "as smart as a steel trap," and immediately added that they wondered where he got his smartness from—certainly not from his father! The elder Phillips had been denominated "shiftless and slack-twisted" by all who ever had any dealings with him in his unlucky, aimless life—one of those improvident, easygoing souls who sit contentedly down to breakfast with a very faint idea where their dinner is to come from. When he had died, no one had missed him, unless it were his patient, sad-eyed wife, who bravely faced her hard lot, and toiled unremittingly to keep a home for her two children—Dan and a girl two years younger, who was a helpless cripple, suffering from some form of spinal disease. Dan, who was old and steady for his years, had gone manfully to work to assist his mother. Though he had been disappointed in all his efforts to obtain steady employment, he was active and obliging, and earned many a small amount by odd jobs around the village, and by helping the Carleton farmers in planting and harvest. For the last two years, however, his most profitable source of summer income had been the trout pond. The former owner had allowed anyone who wished to fish in his pond, and Dan made a regular business of it, selling his trout at the big hotels over at Mosquito Lake. This, in spite of its unattractive name, was a popular summer resort, and Dan always found a ready market for his catch.
