prompt:
Chapter: |ANNE had to live through more than two weeks, as it happened. Almost a
month having elapsed since the liniment cake episode, it was high time
for her to get into fresh trouble of some sort, little mistakes, such as
absentmindedly emptying a pan of skim milk into a basket of yarn balls
in the pantry instead of into the pigs' bucket, and walking clean over
the edge of the log bridge into the brook while wrapped in imaginative
reverie, not really being worth counting.

A week after the tea at the manse Diana Barry gave a party.

"Small and select," Anne assured Marilla. "Just the girls in our class."

They had a very good time and nothing untoward happened until after tea,
when they found themselves in the Barry garden, a little tired of all
their games and ripe for any enticing form of mischief which might
present itself. This presently took the form of "daring."

Daring was the fashionable amusement among the Avonlea small fry just
then. It had begun among the boys, but soon spread to the girls, and all
the silly things that were done in Avonlea that summer because the doers
thereof were "dared" to do them would fill a book by themselves.

First of all Carrie Sloane dared Ruby Gillis to climb to a certain point
in the huge old willow tree before the front door; which Ruby Gillis,
albeit in mortal dread of the fat green caterpillars with which said
tree was infested and with the fear of her mother before her eyes if she
should tear her new muslin dress, nimbly did, to the discomfiture of the
aforesaid Carrie Sloane. Then Josie Pye dared Jane Andrews to hop on her
left leg around the garden without stopping once or putting her right
foot to the ground; which Jane Andrews gamely tried to do, but gave out
at the third corner and had to confess herself defeated.

Josie's triumph being rather more pronounced than good taste permitted,
Anne Shirley dared her to walk along the top of the board fence which
bounded the garden to the east. Now, to "walk" board fences requires
more skill and steadiness of head and heel than one might suppose who
has never tried it. But Josie Pye, if deficient in some qualities
that make for popularity, had at least a natural and inborn gift, duly
cultivated, for walking board fences. Josie walked the Barry fence with
an airy unconcern which seemed to imply that a little thing like that
wasn't worth a "dare." Reluctant admiration greeted her exploit, for
most of the other girls could appreciate it, having suffered many things
themselves in their efforts to walk fences. Josie descended from her
perch, flushed with victory, and darted a defiant glance at Anne.

Anne tossed her red braids.

"I don't think it's such a very wonderful thing to walk a little, low,
board fence," she said. "I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the
ridgepole of a roof."

"I don't believe it," said Josie flatly. "I don't believe anybody could
walk a ridgepole. _You_ couldn't, anyhow."

"Couldn't I?" cried Anne rashly.

"Then I dare you to do it," said Josie defiantly. "I dare you to climb
up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry's kitchen roof."

Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She
walked toward the house, where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen
roof. All the fifth-class girls said, "Oh!" partly in excitement, partly
in dismay.

"Don't you do it, Anne," entreated Diana. "You'll fall off and be
killed. Never mind Josie Pye. It isn't fair to dare anybody to do
anything so dangerous."

"I must do it. My honor is at stake," said Anne solemnly. "I shall walk
that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt. If I am killed you are
to have my pearl bead ring."

Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole,
balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to
walk along it, dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up
in the world and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your
imagination helped you out much. Nevertheless, she managed to take
several steps before the catastrophe came. Then she swayed, lost her
balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked
roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper
beneath--all before the dismayed circle below could give a simultaneous,
terrified shriek.

If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up which she had ascended
Diana would probably have fallen heir to the pearl bead ring then and
there. Fortunately she fell on the other side, where the roof extended
down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was
a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when Diana and the other
girls had rushed frantically around the house--except Ruby Gillis, who
remained as if rooted to the ground and went into hysterics--they found
Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia
creeper.

"Anne, are you killed?" shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees
beside her friend. "Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and
tell me if you're killed."

To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially of Josie Pye,
who, in spite of lack of imagination, had been seized with horrible
visions of a future branded as the girl who was the cause of Anne
Shirley's early and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered
uncertainly:

"No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am rendered unconscious."

"Where?" sobbed Carrie Sloane. "Oh, where, Anne?" Before Anne could
answer Mrs. Barry appeared on the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to
scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of
pain.

"What's the matter? Where have you hurt yourself?" demanded Mrs. Barry.

"My ankle," gasped Anne. "Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him
to take me home. I know I can never walk there. And I'm sure I couldn't
hop so far on one foot when Jane couldn't even hop around the garden."

Marilla was out in the orchard picking a panful of summer apples when
she saw Mr. Barry coming over the log bridge and up the slope, with Mrs.
Barry beside him and a whole procession of little girls trailing after
him. In his arms he carried Anne, whose head lay limply against his
shoulder.

At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that
pierced her very heart she realized what Anne had come to mean to her.
She would have admitted that she liked Anne--nay, that she was very fond
of Anne. But now she knew as she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne
was dearer to her than anything else on earth.

"Mr. Barry, what has happened to her?" she gasped, more white and shaken
than the self-contained, sensible Marilla had been for many years.

Anne herself answered, lifting her head.

"Don't be very frightened, Marilla. I was walking the ridgepole and I
fell off. I expect I have sprained my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have
broken my neck. Let us look on the bright side of things."

"I might have known you'd go and do something of the sort when I let you
go to that party," said Marilla, sharp and shrewish in her very relief.
"Bring her in here, Mr. Barry, and lay her on the sofa. Mercy me, the
child has gone and fainted!"

It was quite true. Overcome by the pain of her injury, Anne had one more
of her wishes granted to her. She had fainted dead away.

Matthew, hastily summoned from the harvest field, was straightway
dispatched for the doctor, who in due time came, to discover that the
injury was more serious than they had supposed. Anne's ankle was broken.

That night, when Marilla went up to the east gable, where a white-faced
girl was lying, a plaintive voice greeted her from the bed.

"Aren't you very sorry for me, Marilla?"

"It was your own fault," said Marilla, twitching down the blind and
lighting a lamp.

"And that is just why you should be sorry for me," said Anne, "because
the thought that it is all my own fault is what makes it so hard. If I
could blame it on anybody I would feel so much better. But what would
you have done, Marilla, if you had been dared to walk a ridgepole?"

"I'd have stayed on good firm ground and let them dare away. Such
absurdity!" said Marilla.

Anne sighed.

"But you have such strength of mind, Marilla. I haven't. I just felt
that I couldn't bear Josie Pye's scorn. She would have crowed over me
all my life. And I think I have been punished so much that you needn't
be very cross with me, Marilla. It's not a bit nice to faint, after all.
And the doctor hurt me dreadfully when he was setting my ankle. I won't
be able to go around for six or seven weeks and I'll miss the new lady
teacher. She won't be new any more by the time I'm able to go to school.
And Gil--everybody will get ahead of me in class. Oh, I am an afflicted
mortal. But I'll try to bear it all bravely if only you won't be cross
with me, Marilla."

"There, there, I'm not cross," said Marilla. "You're an unlucky child,
there's no doubt about that; but as you say, you'll have the suffering
of it. Here now, try and eat some supper."

"Isn't it fortunate I've got such an imagination?" said Anne. "It will
help me through splendidly, I expect. What do people who haven't any
imagination do when they break their bones, do you suppose, Marilla?"

Anne had good reason to bless her imagination many a time and oft during
the tedious seven weeks that followed. But she was not solely dependent
on it. She had many visitors and not a day passed without one or more of
the schoolgirls dropping in to bring her flowers and books and tell her
all the happenings in the juvenile world of Avonlea.

"Everybody has been so good and kind, Marilla," sighed Anne happily,
on the day when she could first limp across the floor. "It isn't very
pleasant to be laid up; but there is a bright side to it, Marilla. You
find out how many friends you have. Why, even Superintendent Bell came
to see me, and he's really a very fine man. Not a kindred spirit, of
course; but still I like him and I'm awfully sorry I ever criticized his
prayers. I believe now he really does mean them, only he has got into
the habit of saying them as if he didn't. He could get over that if he'd
take a little trouble. I gave him a good broad hint. I told him how hard
I tried to make my own little private prayers interesting. He told me
all about the time he broke his ankle when he was a boy. It does seem
so strange to think of Superintendent Bell ever being a boy. Even my
imagination has its limits, for I can't imagine _that_. When I try to
imagine him as a boy I see him with gray whiskers and spectacles, just
as he looks in Sunday school, only small. Now, it's so easy to imagine
Mrs. Allan as a little girl. Mrs. Allan has been to see me fourteen
times. Isn't that something to be proud of, Marilla? When a minister's
wife has so many claims on her time! She is such a cheerful person to
have visit you, too. She never tells you it's your own fault and she
hopes you'll be a better girl on account of it. Mrs. Lynde always told
me that when she came to see me; and she said it in a kind of way that
made me feel she might hope I'd be a better girl but didn't really
believe I would. Even Josie Pye came to see me. I received her as
politely as I could, because I think she was sorry she dared me to walk
a ridgepole. If I had been killed she would had to carry a dark burden
of remorse all her life. Diana has been a faithful friend. She's been
over every day to cheer my lonely pillow. But oh, I shall be so glad
when I can go to school for I've heard such exciting things about the
new teacher. The girls all think she is perfectly sweet. Diana says she
has the loveliest fair curly hair and such fascinating eyes. She dresses
beautifully, and her sleeve puffs are bigger than anybody else's in
Avonlea. Every other Friday afternoon she has recitations and everybody
has to say a piece or take part in a dialogue. Oh, it's just glorious to
think of it. Josie Pye says she hates it but that is just because Josie
has so little imagination. Diana and Ruby Gillis and Jane Andrews are
preparing a dialogue, called 'A Morning Visit,' for next Friday. And the
Friday afternoons they don't have recitations Miss Stacy takes them
all to the woods for a 'field' day and they study ferns and flowers
and birds. And they have physical culture exercises every morning and
evening. Mrs. Lynde says she never heard of such goings on and it all
comes of having a lady teacher. But I think it must be splendid and I
believe I shall find that Miss Stacy is a kindred spirit."

"There's one thing plain to be seen, Anne," said Marilla, "and that is
that your fall off the Barry roof hasn't injured your tongue at all."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Anne Comes to Grief in an Affair of Honor At the end of summer, Diana Barry invites all the girls in the Sunday school class to her house for a party. Tired of their usual songs and games, the girls decide to embark on more adventurous activities. They dare each other to hop around the yard on one foot or climb a tree. Josie Pye, a sly girl whom Diana and Anne dislike, dares Anne to walk the ridgepole of the Barry's kitchen roof. Diana tries to dissuade Anne from performing such a difficult dare, but Anne feels her honor is at stake, so she climbs to the top of the roof. She manages to walk a few steps before losing her balance, falling to the ground, and breaking her ankle. All the girls rush to her side, shrieking and crying. When Marilla sees Mr. Barry carrying Anne back to Green Gables, she is terrified that something serious has happened. She realizes for the first time how much Anne means to her. Anne rests in bed for seven weeks and is pleased to find that many people in Avonlea care enough about her to visit. From her friends she hears all about the new teacher, Miss Stacy, who dresses beautifully and organizes recitations, nature walks, and physical exercises for her class. Anne thinks her new teacher will be a kindred spirit


prompt:
Chapter: |IT was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school--a
glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the
valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had
poured them in for the sun to drain--amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and
smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth
of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of
many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The Birch Path was a canopy
of yellow and the ferns were sear and brown all along it. There was a
tang in the very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping,
unlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school; and it _was_ jolly to
be back again at the little brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis
nodding across the aisle and Carrie Sloane sending up notes and Julia
Bell passing a "chew" of gum down from the back seat. Anne drew a long
breath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil and arranged her picture
cards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting.

In the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend. Miss Stacy
was a bright, sympathetic young woman with the happy gift of winning and
holding the affections of her pupils and bringing out the best that was
in them mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this
wholesome influence and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the
critical Marilla glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims.

"I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike
and she has such a sweet voice. When she pronounces my name I feel
_instinctively_ that she's spelling it with an E. We had recitations
this afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to hear me recite
'Mary, Queen of Scots.' I just put my whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis
told me coming home that the way I said the line, 'Now for my father's
arm,' she said, 'my woman's heart farewell,' just made her blood run
cold."

"Well now, you might recite it for me some of these days, out in the
barn," suggested Matthew.

"Of course I will," said Anne meditatively, "but I won't be able to do
it so well, I know. It won't be so exciting as it is when you have a
whole schoolful before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I
won't be able to make your blood run cold."

"Mrs. Lynde says it made _her_ blood run cold to see the boys climbing to
the very tops of those big trees on Bell's hill after crows' nests last
Friday," said Marilla. "I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it."

"But we wanted a crow's nest for nature study," explained Anne. "That
was on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla.
And Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to write
compositions on our field afternoons and I write the best ones."

"It's very vain of you to say so then. You'd better let your teacher say
it."

"But she _did_ say it, Marilla. And indeed I'm not vain about it. How can
I be, when I'm such a dunce at geometry? Although I'm really beginning
to see through it a little, too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still,
I'll never be good at it and I assure you it is a humbling reflection.
But I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose
our own subjects; but next week we are to write a composition on some
remarkable person. It's hard to choose among so many remarkable people
who have lived. Mustn't it be splendid to be remarkable and have
compositions written about you after you're dead? Oh, I would dearly
love to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I'll be a trained nurse
and go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of
mercy. That is, if I don't go out as a foreign missionary. That would
be very romantic, but one would have to be very good to be a missionary,
and that would be a stumbling block. We have physical culture exercises
every day, too. They make you graceful and promote digestion."

"Promote fiddlesticks!" said Marilla, who honestly thought it was all
nonsense.

But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays and physical culture
contortions paled before a project which Miss Stacy brought forward in
November. This was that the scholars of Avonlea school should get up
a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas Night, for the laudable
purpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils one and
all taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for a program
were begun at once. And of all the excited performers-elect none was so
excited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart
and soul, hampered as she was by Marilla's disapproval. Marilla thought
it all rank foolishness.

"It's just filling your heads up with nonsense and taking time that
ought to be put on your lessons," she grumbled. "I don't approve of
children's getting up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes
them vain and forward and fond of gadding."

"But think of the worthy object," pleaded Anne. "A flag will cultivate a
spirit of patriotism, Marilla."

"Fudge! There's precious little patriotism in the thoughts of any of
you. All you want is a good time."

"Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn't it all right? Of
course it's real nice to be getting up a concert. We're going to have
six choruses and Diana is to sing a solo. I'm in two dialogues--'The
Society for the Suppression of Gossip' and 'The Fairy Queen.' The boys
are going to have a dialogue too. And I'm to have two recitations,
Marilla. I just tremble when I think of it, but it's a nice thrilly kind
of tremble. And we're to have a tableau at the last--'Faith, Hope and
Charity.' Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with
flowing hair. I'm to be Hope, with my hands clasped--so--and my eyes
uplifted. I'm going to practice my recitations in the garret. Don't be
alarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heartrendingly in one
of them, and it's really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Marilla.
Josie Pye is sulky because she didn't get the part she wanted in
the dialogue. She wanted to be the fairy queen. That would have been
ridiculous, for who ever heard of a fairy queen as fat as Josie? Fairy
queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the queen and I am to be
one of her maids of honor. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is
just as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie
says. I'm to have a wreath of white roses on my hair and Ruby Gillis
is going to lend me her slippers because I haven't any of my own. It's
necessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn't imagine
a fairy wearing boots, could you? Especially with copper toes? We are
going to decorate the hall with creeping spruce and fir mottoes with
pink tissue-paper roses in them. And we are all to march in two by two
after the audience is seated, while Emma White plays a march on the
organ. Oh, Marilla, I know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am,
but don't you hope your little Anne will distinguish herself?"

"All I hope is that you'll behave yourself. I'll be heartily glad when
all this fuss is over and you'll be able to settle down. You are simply
good for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and
groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it's a marvel it's not clean
worn out."

Anne sighed and betook herself to the back yard, over which a young new
moon was shining through the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green
western sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne perched herself
on a block and talked the concert over with him, sure of an appreciative
and sympathetic listener in this instance at least.

"Well now, I reckon it's going to be a pretty good concert. And I
expect you'll do your part fine," he said, smiling down into her eager,
vivacious little face. Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best
of friends and Matthew thanked his stars many a time and oft that he had
nothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla's exclusive duty;
if it had been his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts
between inclination and said duty. As it was, he was free to, "spoil
Anne"--Marilla's phrasing--as much as he liked. But it was not such a
bad arrangement after all; a little "appreciation" sometimes does quite
as much good as all the conscientious "bringing up" in the world.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert Anne enjoys her return to school in October. She especially adores her new teacher, and flourishes academically and personally in Miss Stacy's innovative schoolhouse. Both Mrs. Rachel and Marilla disapprove of Miss Stacy's novel teaching methods, which include sending boys to retrieve birds' nests from the tops of trees to use as teaching tools and leading the children in daily exercises. In November, Miss Stacy announces that the school will put on a Christmas concert to raise money to buy a Canadian flag for the schoolhouse. Anne is even more excited than the rest of the students and anxiously awaits the performance of her two recitations. Marilla declares the concert "foolishness," so Anne talks to Matthew about the concert. He reflects that he is glad that he has no part in bringing up Anne, since his lack of involvement allows him to spoil her.


prompt:
Chapter: |MATTHEW was having a bad ten minutes of it. He had come into the
kitchen, in the twilight of a cold, gray December evening, and had sat
down in the woodbox corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of
the fact that Anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were having a practice
of "The Fairy Queen" in the sitting room. Presently they came trooping
through the hall and out into the kitchen, laughing and chattering
gaily. They did not see Matthew, who shrank bashfully back into the
shadows beyond the woodbox with a boot in one hand and a bootjack in the
other, and he watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they
put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue and the concert.
Anne stood among them, bright eyed and animated as they; but Matthew
suddenly became conscious that there was something about her different
from her mates. And what worried Matthew was that the difference
impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a
brighter face, and bigger, starrier eyes, and more delicate features
than the other; even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take note
of these things; but the difference that disturbed him did not consist
in any of these respects. Then in what did it consist?

Matthew was haunted by this question long after the girls had gone, arm
in arm, down the long, hard-frozen lane and Anne had betaken herself
to her books. He could not refer it to Marilla, who, he felt, would be
quite sure to sniff scornfully and remark that the only difference she
saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their
tongues quiet while Anne never did. This, Matthew felt, would be no
great help.

He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much
to Marilla's disgust. After two hours of smoking and hard reflection
Matthew arrived at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like
the other girls!

The more Matthew thought about the matter the more he was convinced that
Anne never had been dressed like the other girls--never since she had
come to Green Gables. Marilla kept her clothed in plain, dark dresses,
all made after the same unvarying pattern. If Matthew knew there was
such a thing as fashion in dress it was as much as he did; but he was
quite sure that Anne's sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the
other girls wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen
around her that evening--all gay in waists of red and blue and pink
and white--and he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly and
soberly gowned.

Of course, it must be all right. Marilla knew best and Marilla was
bringing her up. Probably some wise, inscrutable motive was to be served
thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty
dress--something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that
he would give her one; that surely could not be objected to as an
unwarranted putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off.
A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a
sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed, while Marilla
opened all the doors and aired the house.

The very next evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the
dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would
be, he felt assured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Matthew
could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer; but he knew he would be
at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl's dress.

After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson's store
instead of William Blair's. To be sure, the Cuthberts always had gone to
William Blair's; it was almost as much a matter of conscience with them
as to attend the Presbyterian church and vote Conservative. But William
Blair's two daughters frequently waited on customers there and Matthew
held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he
knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out; but in such a matter
as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he
must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson's,
where Samuel or his son would wait on him.

Alas! Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his
business, had set up a lady clerk also; she was a niece of his wife's
and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge, drooping pompadour,
big, rolling brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She
was dressed with exceeding smartness and wore several bangle bracelets
that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands.
Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all; and
those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop.

"What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert?" Miss Lucilla Harris
inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both
hands.

"Have you any--any--any--well now, say any garden rakes?" stammered
Matthew.

Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man
inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December.

"I believe we have one or two left over," she said, "but they're
upstairs in the lumber room. I'll go and see." During her absence
Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort.

When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired:
"Anything else tonight, Mr. Cuthbert?" Matthew took his courage in
both hands and replied: "Well now, since you suggest it, I might as
well--take--that is--look at--buy some--some hayseed."

Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called odd. She now concluded
that he was entirely crazy.

"We only keep hayseed in the spring," she explained loftily. "We've none
on hand just now."

"Oh, certainly--certainly--just as you say," stammered unhappy
Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door. At the threshold he
recollected that he had not paid for it and he turned miserably back.
While Miss Harris was counting out his change he rallied his powers for
a final desperate attempt.

"Well now--if it isn't too much trouble--I might as well--that is--I'd
like to look at--at--some sugar."

"White or brown?" queried Miss Harris patiently.

"Oh--well now--brown," said Matthew feebly.

"There's a barrel of it over there," said Miss Harris, shaking her
bangles at it. "It's the only kind we have."

"I'll--I'll take twenty pounds of it," said Matthew, with beads of
perspiration standing on his forehead.

Matthew had driven halfway home before he was his own man again. It had
been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for
committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached
home he hid the rake in the tool house, but the sugar he carried in to
Marilla.

"Brown sugar!" exclaimed Marilla. "Whatever possessed you to get so
much? You know I never use it except for the hired man's porridge or
black fruit cake. Jerry's gone and I've made my cake long ago. It's not
good sugar, either--it's coarse and dark--William Blair doesn't usually
keep sugar like that."

"I--I thought it might come in handy sometime," said Matthew, making
good his escape.

When Matthew came to think the matter over he decided that a woman was
required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question.
Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once.
Remained only Mrs. Lynde; for of no other woman in Avonlea would Matthew
have dared to ask advice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that
good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man's hands.

"Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be sure I will. I'm going to
Carmody tomorrow and I'll attend to it. Have you something particular in
mind? No? Well, I'll just go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice
rich brown would just suit Anne, and William Blair has some new gloria
in that's real pretty. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her, too,
seeing that if Marilla was to make it Anne would probably get wind of it
before the time and spoil the surprise? Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't
a mite of trouble. I like sewing. I'll make it to fit my niece, Jenny
Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure goes."

"Well now, I'm much obliged," said Matthew, "and--and--I dunno--but I'd
like--I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used
to be. If it wouldn't be asking too much I--I'd like them made in the
new way."

"Puffs? Of course. You needn't worry a speck more about it, Matthew.
I'll make it up in the very latest fashion," said Mrs. Lynde. To herself
she added when Matthew had gone:

"It'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something
decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous,
that's what, and I've ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've
held my tongue though, for I can see Marilla doesn't want advice and she
thinks she knows more about bringing children up than I do for all
she's an old maid. But that's always the way. Folks that has brought up
children know that there's no hard and fast method in the world that'll
suit every child. But them as never have think it's all as plain and
easy as Rule of Three--just set your three terms down so fashion, and
the sum 'll work out correct. But flesh and blood don't come under the
head of arithmetic and that's where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake.
I suppose she's trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by
dressing her as she does; but it's more likely to cultivate envy and
discontent. I'm sure the child must feel the difference between her
clothes and the other girls'. But to think of Matthew taking notice of
it! That man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years."

Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on
his mind, but what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when
Mrs. Lynde brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well on the
whole, although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Lynde's diplomatic
explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne
would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it.

"So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over and
grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it?" she said a little
stiffly but tolerantly. "I knew he was up to some foolishness. Well, I
must say I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made her three
good, warm, serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer
extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a
waist, I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew,
and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied
at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever
since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The
puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along; they're
as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go
through a door sideways."

Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very
mild December and people had looked forward to a green Christmas; but
just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne
peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs
in the Haunted Wood were all feathery and wonderful; the birches
and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl; the plowed fields were
stretches of snowy dimples; and there was a crisp tang in the air that
was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice reechoed
through Green Gables.

"Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely
Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't
seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not
green--they're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call
them green? Why--why--Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew!"

Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings and
held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be
contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene
out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air.

Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty
it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt
with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the
most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck.
But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and
above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of
brown-silk ribbon.

"That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly.
"Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now."

For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears.

"Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped
her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you
enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy
dream."

"Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say,
Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it
for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs.
Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in."

"I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously.
"Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather
feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still
fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went
out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied,
you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel
that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm
sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will
be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when
irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort
after this."

When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the
white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson
ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her.

"Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've
something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest
dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer."

"I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this
box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in
it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it
didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming
through the Haunted Wood in the dark now."

Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl
and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest
little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening
buckles.

"Oh," said Anne, "Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming."

"I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's
slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for
you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would
be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the
practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?"

All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the
hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held.

The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The
little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but
Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in
the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny.

"Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all
over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry
sky.

"Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we
must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to
send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers."

"Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to
think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than
you did when it was encored. I just said to myself, 'It is my dear bosom
friend who is so honored.'"

"Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one
was simply splendid."

"Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really
cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million
eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I
was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed
sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves,
Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so
far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced
those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able
to get through. Did I groan all right?"

"Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana.

"I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was
splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic
to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable
occasion indeed."

"Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine?" said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe was just
splendid. Anne, I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait
till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue
one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put
it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you
ought to be pleased at that."

"It's nothing to me what that person does," said Anne loftily. "I simply
never waste a thought on him, Diana."

That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the
first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after
Anne had gone to bed.

"Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them," said Matthew
proudly.

"Yes, she did," admitted Marilla. "She's a bright child, Matthew. And
she looked real nice too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert
scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I
was proud of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so."

"Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so 'fore she went
upstairs," said Matthew. "We must see what we can do for her some of
these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea
school by and by."

"There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only
thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a
big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne
look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do
for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need
be said about that for a year or two yet."

"Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said
Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking
over."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Matthew Insists on Puffed Sleeves On a cold December evening, Matthew enters the kitchen and realizes too late that Anne and her friends are already there conducting a rehearsal of "The Fairy Queen" in preparation for the Christmas concert. Shy of all the little girls, he stays silently in the corner until they leave. While observing the group, Matthew notices that Anne is dressed differently from her friends. He becomes convinced that she needs more fashionable clothing and goes into the town of Carmody to find a bright dress with puffed sleeves. Shopping is not an easy task for such a shy man, but Matthew summons his courage and goes to Samuel Lawson's store, which he thinks will not have a female clerk at the desk. Much to Matthew's dismay, he finds that Samuel Lawson has hired a female clerk, Miss Lucilla Harris. Matthew is too scared to ask Miss Harris for fashion advice, and asks for twenty pounds of brown sugar and a garden rake before making his escape. Matthew eventually asks Mrs. Rachel for help, and she picks out a rich brown fabric and uses a fashionable pattern to make Anne's dress. Mrs. Rachel has often wondered why Marilla dresses Anne so plainly and is happy to have a part in updating Anne's wardrobe. On Christmas Day, Matthew unveils the dress, complete with puffed sleeves. Diana comes over with a present from Aunt Josephine for Anne: delicate slippers. Anne is delighted by her beautiful new garments. Anne's Christmas concert is the first one Matthew and Marilla have been to in twenty years. Anne, wearing her new dress and shoes, is the star of the show. Both Cuthberts are swollen with pride. Matthew immediately tells Anne how proud he is of her, but Marilla decides not to compliment Anne


prompt:
Chapter: |JUNIOR Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence
again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and
unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping for
weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those faraway
days before the concert? At first, as she told Diana, she did not really
think she could.

"I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the
same again as it was in those olden days," she said mournfully, as if
referring to a period of at least fifty years back. "Perhaps after a
while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for
everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them.
Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be
sensible; but still, I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible
person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no
danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now
that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because
I'm tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I just
lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again. That's one
splendid thing about such affairs--it's so lovely to look back to them."

Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove
and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby
Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in
their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising
friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did
not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright
that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a
chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes
would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared
that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had
retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to
do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson,
because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about
her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody
Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the
rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work
in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness.

The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so
little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by
way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly
down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss
Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A
Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant.

"Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an
awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke
this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've
been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty
to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting.
In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think
that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at."

"Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen,"
said Diana.

"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus," said Anne disdainfully.
"She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a
take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an
uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable
speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I
simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech,
so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to
be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect.
Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she
treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to
set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even
ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody
else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting
sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper
to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is
imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard
to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on
better."

"In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana.
"Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think
that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen."

"If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I
wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was
extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and
that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I
heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to
me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for
our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in
winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep
and dreaming pretty dreams."

"I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed
Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to
hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a
story out of our own heads!"

"Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne.

"It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted Diana,
"but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you
have your composition all done?"

Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing
miserably.

"I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called 'The Jealous Rival; or In
Death Not Divided.' I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and
nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is
the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just cried like
a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful maidens called
Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village
and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette
with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was
a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes."

"I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana dubiously.

"Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the
common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I've found out what an
alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You
know so much more than you did when you were only twelve."

"Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" asked Diana, who was
beginning to feel rather interested in their fate.

"They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram
DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair
Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a
carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried her home three
miles; because, you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found
it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to
go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed
because I thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so
many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when
Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan
that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said, 'What
do you say, darling pet, if we get hitched this fall?' And Susan said,
'Yes--no--I don't know--let me see'--and there they were, engaged as
quick as that. But I didn't think that sort of a proposal was a very
romantic one, so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could.
I made it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees,
although Ruby Gillis says it isn't done nowadays. Geraldine accepted
him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a lot of trouble
with that speech. I rewrote it five times and I look upon it as my
masterpiece. Bertram gave her a diamond ring and a ruby necklace
and told her they would go to Europe for a wedding tour, for he was
immensely wealthy. But then, alas, shadows began to darken over their
path. Cordelia was secretly in love with Bertram herself and when
Geraldine told her about the engagement she was simply furious,
especially when she saw the necklace and the diamond ring. All her
affection for Geraldine turned to bitter hate and she vowed that she
should never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine's friend
the same as ever. One evening they were standing on the bridge over a
rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, thinking they were alone, pushed
Geraldine over the brink with a wild, mocking, 'Ha, ha, ha.' But Bertram
saw it all and he at once plunged into the current, exclaiming, 'I
will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.' But alas, he had forgotten he
couldn't swim, and they were both drowned, clasped in each other's arms.
Their bodies were washed ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the
one grave and their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It's so much
more romantic to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for
Cordelia, she went insane with remorse and was shut up in a lunatic
asylum. I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime."

"How perfectly lovely!" sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew's school
of critics. "I don't see how you can make up such thrilling things out
of your own head, Anne. I wish my imagination was as good as yours."

"It would be if you'd only cultivate it," said Anne cheeringly. "I've
just thought of a plan, Diana. Let you and me have a story club all our
own and write stories for practice. I'll help you along until you can
do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate your imagination, you know.
Miss Stacy says so. Only we must take the right way. I told her about
the Haunted Wood, but she said we went the wrong way about it in that."

This was how the story club came into existence. It was limited to Diana
and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include Jane Andrews
and Ruby Gillis and one or two others who felt that their imaginations
needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in it--although Ruby Gillis
opined that their admission would make it more exciting--and each member
had to produce one story a week.

"It's extremely interesting," Anne told Marilla. "Each girl has to read
her story out loud and then we talk it over. We are going to keep them
all sacredly and have them to read to our descendants. We each write
under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency. All the girls
do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental. She puts too much
lovemaking into her stories and you know too much is worse than too
little. Jane never puts any because she says it makes her feel so silly
when she had to read it out loud. Jane's stories are extremely sensible.
Then Diana puts too many murders into hers. She says most of the time
she doesn't know what to do with the people so she kills them off to get
rid of them. I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but
that isn't hard for I've millions of ideas."

"I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet," scoffed
Marilla. "You'll get a pack of nonsense into your heads and waste time
that should be put on your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but
writing them is worse."

"But we're so careful to put a moral into them all, Marilla," explained
Anne. "I insist upon that. All the good people are rewarded and all
the bad ones are suitably punished. I'm sure that must have a wholesome
effect. The moral is the great thing. Mr. Allan says so. I read one of
my stories to him and Mrs. Allan and they both agreed that the moral was
excellent. Only they laughed in the wrong places. I like it better when
people cry. Jane and Ruby almost always cry when I come to the pathetic
parts. Diana wrote her Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt
Josephine wrote back that we were to send her some of our stories. So
we copied out four of our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry
wrote back that she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That
kind of puzzled us because the stories were all very pathetic and almost
everybody died. But I'm glad Miss Barry liked them. It shows our club
is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allan says that ought to be our
object in everything. I do really try to make it my object but I forget
so often when I'm having fun. I hope I shall be a little like Mrs. Allan
when I grow up. Do you think there is any prospect of it, Marilla?"

"I shouldn't say there was a great deal" was Marilla's encouraging
answer. "I'm sure Mrs. Allan was never such a silly, forgetful little
girl as you are."

"No; but she wasn't always so good as she is now either," said Anne
seriously. "She told me so herself--that is, she said she was a dreadful
mischief when she was a girl and was always getting into scrapes. I felt
so encouraged when I heard that. Is it very wicked of me, Marilla,
to feel encouraged when I hear that other people have been bad and
mischievous? Mrs. Lynde says it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always feels
shocked when she hears of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how
small they were. Mrs. Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that
when he was a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt's pantry
and she never had any respect for that minister again. Now, I wouldn't
have felt that way. I'd have thought that it was real noble of him to
confess it, and I'd have thought what an encouraging thing it would be
for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are sorry for them
to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers in spite of it.
That's how I'd feel, Marilla."

"The way I feel at present, Anne," said Marilla, "is that it's high time
you had those dishes washed. You've taken half an hour longer than
you should with all your chattering. Learn to work first and talk
afterwards."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The Story Club Is Formed After the excitement of the Christmas concert, the Avonlea students return to their normal, humdrum patterns. Anne, now almost thirteen, vows to improve herself by imitating Mrs. Allan, refraining from saying uncharitable things and trying to do good. For school, the students are assigned to write a piece of fiction and a composition about a walk in the winter. These assignments displease Marilla because they rely on imagination rather than memorization. They elate Anne, however, and she completes her original story early. Diana moans that she does not have enough imagination to do the assignment. To help Diana cultivate her imagination and to practice her own writing, Anne proposes that the two girls start a story club. Two of their friends, Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis, eventually join, and the girls spend their time inventing romantic, melodramatic storylines


prompt:
Chapter: Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting,
realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight
that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to
the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis
of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was
thinking about the Aids and their missionary box and the new carpet
for the vestry room, but under these reflections was a harmonious
consciousness of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in the
declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the
meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a
mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden
pulses under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and
Marilla's sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its
deep, primal gladness.

Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its
network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in
several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps
along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know
that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table
nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting
evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables.

Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black
out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and
irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five
o'clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and
prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing.

"I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as
she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was
strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for
his tea in his corner. "She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing
stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never
thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled
up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan
does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may
be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's
never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as
she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I
am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at
the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for
if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before
everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it
from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd
pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just
the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told
her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must
say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy
before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."

"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and,
above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath
out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through
with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely
argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her
untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all
be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining."

"She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon
she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew
you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you."

It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming
hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and
repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away
the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the
cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood
on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself
lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows.

"Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?"

"No," was the muffled reply.

"Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed.

Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself
forever from mortal eyes.

"No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the
depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the
best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little
things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll
ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla,
go away and don't look at me."

"Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know.
"Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get
right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is
it?"

Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience.

"Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered.

Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at
Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a
very strange appearance.

"Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_"

Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer,
dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red
to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen
anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment.

"Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as
red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh,
Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am."

"I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out," said
Marilla. "Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and
tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for
some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I
was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?"

"I dyed it."

"Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked
thing to do?"

"Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it
was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted
the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to
make up for it."

"Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while
to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have
dyed it green."

"But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly.
"If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would
turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it
would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like
to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect
anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're
not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I
hadn't then and I believed every word he said _implicitly_."

"Who said? Who are you talking about?"

"The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him."

"Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those
Italians in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come
around at all."

"Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I
went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step.
Besides, he wasn't an Italian--he was a German Jew. He had a big box
full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to
make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He
spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy
something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once
I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye
any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice I
saw myself with beautiful raven-black hair and the temptation was
irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents and I
had only fifty cents left out of my chicken money. I think the peddler
had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it
for fifty cents and that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as
soon as he had gone I came up here and applied it with an old hairbrush
as the directions said. I used up the whole bottle, and oh, Marilla,
when I saw the dreadful color it turned my hair I repented of being
wicked, I can tell you. And I've been repenting ever since."

"Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said Marilla severely,
"and that you've got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you,
Anne. Goodness knows what's to be done. I suppose the first thing is to
give your hair a good washing and see if that will do any good."

Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and
water, but for all the difference it made she might as well have been
scouring its original red. The peddler had certainly spoken the truth
when he declared that the dye wouldn't wash off, however his veracity
might be impeached in other respects.

"Oh, Marilla, what shall I do?" questioned Anne in tears. "I can never
live this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes--the
liniment cake and setting Diana drunk and flying into a temper with
Mrs. Lynde. But they'll never forget this. They will think I am not
respectable. Oh, Marilla, 'what a tangled web we weave when first we
practice to deceive.' That is poetry, but it is true. And oh, how Josie
Pye will laugh! Marilla, I _cannot_ face Josie Pye. I am the unhappiest
girl in Prince Edward Island."

Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went
nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. Diana alone of outsiders knew
the fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never to tell, and it may
be stated here and now that she kept her word. At the end of the week
Marilla said decidedly:

"It's no use, Anne. That is fast dye if ever there was any. Your hair
must be cut off; there is no other way. You can't go out with it looking
like that."

Anne's lips quivered, but she realized the bitter truth of Marilla's
remarks. With a dismal sigh she went for the scissors.

"Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it over. Oh, I feel that
my heart is broken. This is such an unromantic affliction. The girls in
books lose their hair in fevers or sell it to get money for some good
deed, and I'm sure I wouldn't mind losing my hair in some such fashion
half so much. But there is nothing comforting in having your hair cut
off because you've dyed it a dreadful color, is there? I'm going to weep
all the time you're cutting it off, if it won't interfere. It seems such
a tragic thing."

Anne wept then, but later on, when she went upstairs and looked in the
glass, she was calm with despair. Marilla had done her work thoroughly
and it had been necessary to shingle the hair as closely as possible.
The result was not becoming, to state the case as mildly as may be. Anne
promptly turned her glass to the wall.

"I'll never, never look at myself again until my hair grows," she
exclaimed passionately.

Then she suddenly righted the glass.

"Yes, I will, too. I'd do penance for being wicked that way. I'll look
at myself every time I come to my room and see how ugly I am. And I
won't try to imagine it away, either. I never thought I was vain about
my hair, of all things, but now I know I was, in spite of its being
red, because it was so long and thick and curly. I expect something will
happen to my nose next."

Anne's clipped head made a sensation in school on the following Monday,
but to her relief nobody guessed the real reason for it, not even Josie
Pye, who, however, did not fail to inform Anne that she looked like a
perfect scarecrow.

"I didn't say anything when Josie said that to me," Anne confided
that evening to Marilla, who was lying on the sofa after one of her
headaches, "because I thought it was part of my punishment and I ought
to bear it patiently. It's hard to be told you look like a scarecrow
and I wanted to say something back. But I didn't. I just swept her one
scornful look and then I forgave her. It makes you feel very virtuous
when you forgive people, doesn't it? I mean to devote all my energies
to being good after this and I shall never try to be beautiful again. Of
course it's better to be good. I know it is, but it's sometimes so hard
to believe a thing even when you know it. I do really want to be good,
Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy, and grow up to be a
credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow to tie a black
velvet ribbon around my head with a bow at one side. She says she
thinks it will be very becoming. I will call it a snood--that sounds so
romantic. But am I talking too much, Marilla? Does it hurt your head?"

"My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon, though.
These headaches of mine are getting worse and worse. I'll have to see
a doctor about them. As for your chatter, I don't know that I mind
it--I've got so used to it."

Which was Marilla's way of saying that she liked to hear it.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Vanity and Vexation of Spirit One evening in late April, Marilla walks home feeling uplifted and lighthearted, though she does not realize that the sights of spring are the cause of her joy. She happily anticipates the warm fire and tea that Anne should have prepared for her at home. When she reaches Green Gables, Marilla finds the table bare and Anne nowhere to be found. She complains to Matthew that Anne has disobeyed her order to stay at home and prepare the meal. Her anger turns to concern when suppertime comes and there is still no sign of Anne. Marilla goes upstairs to get a candle from Anne's room and finds her lying facedown on her bed, moaning that she is too ugly to be seen. It turns out that Anne has dyed her hair with disastrous results. She bought hair dye from a traveling peddler who claimed the dye would turn her hair raven black. The dye turned her hair green, and the only solution is for Marilla to crop it to an unfashionably short length. At first Anne weeps at the sight of herself in the mirror, but she then decides to look at her unattractive reflection to remind herself of the folly of vanity


prompt:
Chapter: |OF course you must be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. "I could never have
the courage to float down there."

"Nor I," said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. "I don't mind floating down
when there's two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up. It's fun
then. But to lie down and pretend I was dead--I just couldn't. I'd die
really of fright."

"Of course it would be romantic," conceded Jane Andrews, "but I know I
couldn't keep still. I'd be popping up every minute or so to see where I
was and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you know, Anne, that would
spoil the effect."

"But it's so ridiculous to have a redheaded Elaine," mourned Anne. "I'm
not afraid to float down and I'd love to be Elaine. But it's ridiculous
just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine because she is so fair and has
such lovely long golden hair--Elaine had 'all her bright hair streaming
down,' you know. And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red-haired person
cannot be a lily maid."

"Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said Diana earnestly, "and
your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it."

"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with
delight. "I've sometimes thought it was myself--but I never dared to ask
anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do you think it could be
called auburn now, Diana?"

"Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, looking admiringly at
the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in
place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow.

They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where
a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip
was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience
of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer
afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them.

Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about
the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly
cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring.
Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the
romance of it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and
Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for
such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating
sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout
over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the
little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting.

It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied
Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of
Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince
Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to
pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all
left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and
Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne
was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot.
Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present.

Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if
the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down
with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another
headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often
gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing
Elaine.

"Well, I'll be Elaine," said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although
she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet
her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her
limitations made impossible. "Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane
will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the
brothers and the father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because
there isn't room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must
pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl
of your mother's will be just the thing, Diana."

The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and
then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her
breast.

"Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously,
watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of
the birches. "It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's
really right to act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is
abominably wicked."

"Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It
spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde
was born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking
when she's dead."

Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none,
but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent
substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of
a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could
be desired.

"Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows
and, Diana, you say, 'Sister, farewell forever,' and Ruby, you say,
'Farewell, sweet sister,' both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly
can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine 'lay as
though she smiled.' That's better. Now push the flat off."

The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old
embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long
enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before
scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower
headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be
in readiness to receive the lily maid.

For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her
situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The
flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine
to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall
of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her
barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at
the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne
did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was
in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long
before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left
behind at the landing!

Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was
white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was
one chance--just one.

"I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it
seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the
water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly,
but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could
save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge
piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree
trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was
proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well
I knew it. I just said, 'Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile
and I'll do the rest,' over and over again. Under such circumstances you
don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered,
for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf
and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential
stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile
with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position,
but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about
romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a
grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on
tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get
back to dry land."

The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream.
Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it
disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne
had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets,
frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of
their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never
pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge.
Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying
forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her
position was a very uncomfortable one.

The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily
maid. Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they
had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so
tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the
wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and
shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome
possibilities to her.

Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her
arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the
bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory!

Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white
scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also
scornful gray eyes.

"Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed.

Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended
his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's
hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious,
in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was
certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances!

"What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were
playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her
rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the
flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls
went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?"

Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance,
sprang nimbly on shore.

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away.
But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand
on her arm.

"Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm
awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex
you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think
your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. Let's be friends."

For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened
consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy,
half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was
very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the
bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering
determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her
recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had
called her "carrots" and had brought about her disgrace before the whole
school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as
laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time
seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him!

"No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert
Blythe; and I don't want to be!"

"All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his
cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I
don't care either!"

He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep,
ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but
she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had
answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly,
but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to
sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the
reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt.

Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in
a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at
Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had
succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she
might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the
brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla
had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field.

"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck
and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you
were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you
be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?"

"I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert
Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land."

"Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!" said Jane,
finding breath enough for utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak to
him after this."

"Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old
spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word 'romantic' again, Jane
Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my
fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do
gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your
father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be
allowed to row on the pond any more."

Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt
to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households
when the events of the afternoon became known.

"Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla.

"Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good
cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed
her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my
prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever."

"I don't see how," said Marilla.

"Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today.
Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each
mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of
the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong
to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run
away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in
cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair
and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to
cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is
no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in
towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated
now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me
in this respect, Marilla."

"I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically.

But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on
Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out.

"Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little
of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it,
Anne, keep a little of it."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: An Unfortunate Lily Maid  Anne, Diana, Ruby, and Jane enact a scene from a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson in which the corpse of a character named Elaine is sent down a river in a barge. Though Anne does not look like Elaine, who has golden hair, she gets the part because none of the other girls want to drift down the pond alone in Mr. Barry's little boat. The girls recite romantic farewells and send Anne's unmoving body down the pond. For a few minutes, Anne revels in the romance of the situation, but she then feels water at her back. The boat has a leak, but Anne remains calm and prays for God to bring the boat close to one of the bridge piles  so she can grab on and wait for help. The girls see the boat sink, and, thinking that Anne has sunk with it, they run screaming for help. Anne is able to get to a bridge pile, however, where she hangs on and waits uncomfortably for help. Just when Anne begins to think she cannot hold on any longer, Gilbert Blythe rows up and rescues her. After depositing her safely on the bank, he makes a friendly overture, apologizing again for calling her "Carrots" when they first met and complimenting the auburn color her hair has become. For a moment, Anne hesitates and considers befriending her sworn enemy. But she then recalls her humiliation during the "Carrots" incident and declares she will never become friends with him. Gilbert storms off. Meanwhile, Diana and Jane cannot find any adults to help and have become frantic. Ruby, always inclined toward hysteria, grieves at the Barry house. When Diana and Jane return to the pond, they are relieved that Anne is safe and thrilled by the romance of her rescue by Gilbert. Anne, however, orders Jane never to say the word "romantic" again.