



Produced by John Hamm





THE GOLDEN ROAD

By L. M. Montgomery


     "Life was a rose-lipped comrade
      With purple flowers dripping from her fingers."
                                        --The Author.


               TO
               THE MEMORY OF
               Aunt Mary Lawson
               WHO TOLD ME MANY OF THE TALES
               REPEATED BY THE
               STORY GIRL




FOREWORD


Once upon a time we all walked on the golden road. It was a fair
highway, through the Land of Lost Delight; shadow and sunshine were
blessedly mingled, and every turn and dip revealed a fresh charm and a
new loveliness to eager hearts and unspoiled eyes.

On that road we heard the song of morning stars; we drank in fragrances
aerial and sweet as a May mist; we were rich in gossamer fancies and
iris hopes; our hearts sought and found the boon of dreams; the years
waited beyond and they were very fair; life was a rose-lipped comrade
with purple flowers dripping from her fingers.

We may long have left the golden road behind, but its memories are the
dearest of our eternal possessions; and those who cherish them as such
may haply find a pleasure in the pages of this book, whose people are
pilgrims on the golden road of youth.





THE GOLDEN ROAD




CHAPTER I. A NEW DEPARTURE


"I've thought of something amusing for the winter," I said as we
drew into a half-circle around the glorious wood-fire in Uncle Alec's
kitchen.

It had been a day of wild November wind, closing down into a wet, eerie
twilight. Outside, the wind was shrilling at the windows and around the
eaves, and the rain was playing on the roof. The old willow at the gate
was writhing in the storm and the orchard was a place of weird music,
born of all the tears and fears that haunt the halls of night. But
little we cared for the gloom and the loneliness of the outside world;
we kept them at bay with the light of the fire and the laughter of our
young lips.

We had been having a splendid game of Blind-Man's Buff. That is, it
had been splendid at first; but later the fun went out of it because we
found that Peter was, of malice prepense, allowing himself to be
caught too easily, in order that he might have the pleasure of catching
Felicity--which he never failed to do, no matter how tightly his eyes
were bound. What remarkable goose said that love is blind? Love can see
through five folds of closely-woven muffler with ease!

"I'm getting tired," said Cecily, whose breath was coming rather quickly
and whose pale cheeks had bloomed into scarlet. "Let's sit down and get
the Story Girl to tell us a story."

But as we dropped into our places the Story Girl shot a significant
glance at me which intimated that this was the psychological moment for
introducing the scheme she and I had been secretly developing for some
days. It was really the Story Girl's idea and none of mine. But she had
insisted that I should make the suggestion as coming wholly from myself.

"If you don't, Felicity won't agree to it. You know yourself, Bev, how
contrary she's been lately over anything I mention. And if she goes
against it Peter will too--the ninny!--and it wouldn't be any fun if we
weren't all in it."

"What is it?" asked Felicity, drawing her chair slightly away from
Peter's.

"It is this. Let us get up a newspaper of our own--write it all
ourselves, and have all we do in it. Don't you think we can get a lot of
fun out of it?"

Everyone looked rather blank and amazed, except the Story Girl. She knew
what she had to do, and she did it.

"What a silly idea!" she exclaimed, with a contemptuous toss of her long
brown curls. "Just as if WE could get up a newspaper!"

Felicity fired up, exactly as we had hoped.

"I think it's a splendid idea," she said enthusiastically. "I'd like to
know why we couldn't get up as good a newspaper as they have in town!
Uncle Roger says the Daily Enterprise has gone to the dogs--all the news
it prints is that some old woman has put a shawl on her head and gone
across the road to have tea with another old woman. I guess we could do
better than that. You needn't think, Sara Stanley, that nobody but you
can do anything."

"I think it would be great fun," said Peter decidedly. "My Aunt Jane
helped edit a paper when she was at Queen's Academy, and she said it was
very amusing and helped her a great deal."

The Story Girl could hide her delight only by dropping her eyes and
frowning.

"Bev wants to be editor," she said, "and I