L. M. Montgomery

Author of Anne of the Island

Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942) was born on Prince Edward Island in Canada, in the village of Clifton (now New London). She was raised by her grandparents when she was two when her mother died. Subsequently, her father moved to Saskatchewan, where he remarried, and she was not happy when she spent some months in his new home. 'I don't think,' she wrote, 'that most grown-ups have any real understanding of torture-sensitive children suffering from... any marked difference between themselves and their small world's other denizens.' While working as a reporter for the Halifax Daily Echo, she wrote Anne of Green Gables at night for eighteen months and when she was rejected by four publishers. Then she revised it and it was immediately accepted by a Boston publisher. When it came out in 1908 the book proved so popular that she felt constrained by the constant demand of the public for more stories about Anne ever after. She wrote five sequels – as did many other novels – and they made her rich, but none of them reached the first classic status. She wed Ewan Macdonald in 1911. She had two sons; she enjoyed fame and became a British Empire Order Officer in 1935. She died in Toronto in 1942, and was buried not far from her birthplace at Cavendish Cemetery.READ MORE

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Why did dusk and fir-scent and the afterglow of autumnal sunsets make people say absurd things?

Anyone who has gumption knows what it is, and anyone who hasn’t can never know what it is. So there is no need of defining it.

Few things in Avonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning Anne had said, "If you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door, pulled down the blind, and sneezed, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the next day how your cold was!

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.

Long after Pacifiique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, "Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.

It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable.

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