lachowskii







‘Some day,’ said Walter dreamily, ‘the Pied Piper will come over the hill up there and down Rainbow Valley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I will follow him - follow him down to the shore - down to the sea - away from you all. I don’t think I’ll want to go - Jem will want to go - it will
be such an adventure - but I won’t. Only I’ll have to - the music will call and call and call me until I must follow.’ —Rainbow Valley, L.M. Montgomery. (via avonleavignettes)



Anne looked and forgot for a time the girl with the splendid, resentful eyes. The first glimpse of her new home was a delight to eye and spirit—it looked so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbor shore. The rows of tall Lombardy poplars down its lane stood out in stately, purple silhouette against the sky. Behind it, sheltering its garden from the too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, in which the winds might make all kinds of weird and haunting music. Like all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses,—secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and patiently seeking. Outwardly, dark green arms keep them inviolate from curious or indifferent eyes.

The night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as Anne and Gilbert drove up the poplar lane. The door of the little house opened, and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the sandstone step.

“Welcome home,” he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of their house of dreams.

—Anne’s House of Dreams by L.M. Montgomery (via rufflebutts)