9 april 2016

The Story Girl

The Story Girl is a 1911 novel by Canadian author L. M. Montgomery.
 It narrates the adventures of a group of young cousins and their friends
 who live in a rural community on Prince Edward Island, Canada.

The book is narrated by Beverley, who together with his brother Felix,
has come to live with his Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec King on their farm
while their father travels for business.
They spend their leisure time with their cousins Dan, Felicity and Cecily King,
 hired boy Peter Craig, neighbour Sara Ray and another cousin, Sara Stanley.
The latter is the Story Girl of the title, and she entertains the group with
 fascinating tales including various events in the King family history.
"I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it,"
 once said Sara Stanley, also known as the Story Girl.
She is enlightening and brings about a glow to the reader's heart.
The sequel to the book is The Golden Road, written in 1913.
The Story Girl was one of the books which inspired
the Canadian television series Road to Avonlea.

I WAKENED shortly after sunrise.
The pale May sunshine was showering through
 the spruces, and a chill, inspiring wind was tossing the boughs about.
"Felix, wake up," I whispered, shaking him.
"What's the matter?" he murmured reluctantly.
"It's morning. Let's get up and go down and out.
I can't wait another minute to see the places father has told us of."
We slipped out of bed and dressed, without arousing Dan,
who was still slumbering soundly, his mouth wide open,
and his bed-clothes kicked off on the floor.
I had hard work to keep Felix from trying to see if he could "shy"
a marble into that tempting open mouth. I told him it would waken Dan,
who would then likely insist on getting up and accompanying us,
and it would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time.
Everything was very still as we crept downstairs.

Out in the kitchen we heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec,
lighting the fire; but the heart of house had not yet begun to beat for the day.
We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big "Grandfather" clock.
It was not going, but it seemed like an old, familiar acquaintance to us,
with the gilt balls on its three peaks; the little dial and pointer
which would indicate the changes of the moon, and the very dent in its wooden door
which father had made when he was a boy, by kicking it in a fit of naughtiness.
Then we opened the front door and stepped out, rapture swelling in our bosoms.
There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to meet us;
the shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut;
 the exquisite skies of early morning,
blue and wind-winnowed, were over us; away to the west, beyond the brook field,
 was a long valley and a hill purple with firs and laced with still leafless
beeches and maples.

Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim,
cool place where the winds were fond of purring and where there was always
 a resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick plantation
 of slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and beyond it
 was Uncle Roger's house.
Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge,
was the famous King orchard, the history of which was woven
 into our earliest recollections.
We knew all about it, from father's descriptions,
and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and oft.

1 opmerking:

Unknown zei

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