The Story Girl by L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery
page 26 of 360 (07%)
page 26 of 360 (07%)
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of waiting. The, for the first time, the orchard heard the sound
of weeping and was consecrated by a sorrow. "When the blossoms come out it's wonderful to walk here," said the Story Girl. "It's like a dream of fairyland--as if you were walking in a king's palace. The apples are delicious, and in winter it's a splendid place for coasting." From the Walk we went to the Pulpit Stone--a huge gray boulder, as high as a man's head, in the southeastern corner. It was straight and smooth in front, but sloped down in natural steps behind, with a ledge midway on which one could stand. It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts, being fortified castle, Indian ambush, throne, pulpit, or concert platform, as occasion required. Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray boulder; and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands, sang her earliest madrigals there. The Story Girl mounted to the ledge, sat on the rim, and looked at us. Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black paws. "Now for your stories about the orchard," said I. "There are two important ones," said the Story Girl. "The story of the Poet Who Was Kissed, and the Tale of the Family Ghost. Which one shall I tell?" "Tell them both," said Felix greedily, "but tell the ghost one |
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