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You're built to win it. Welcome to the newscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at newscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a well-regulated farm. Tonight, we'll read the opening too, and of green gables.

The classic 1908 novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery written for all ages, it recounts the adventures of an 11-year-old orphan named Anne Shirley on Prince Edward Island, Canada.

The novel Recalents How Anne makes her way through life with two middle-aged siblings,

the cuthers, in school, and within the town. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body and. This is Rachel Lind lived just where the avanly main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place. It was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade. But by the time it reached Lin's Hollow, it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream. For not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynn's door without due regard for decency and decorum. It probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed. From Brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place, she would never rest until she had fared it out, the wise and wear-forse thereof. There are plenty of people and avidly and out of it who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own. But Mrs. Rachel Lind was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife. Her work was always done and well done. She ran the sewing circle, helped run the Sunday school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and foreign missions auxiliary. Yet, with all this, Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting cotton warp quilts. She had knitted sixteen of them, as avanely housekeepers were want to tell in odd voices, and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonli occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window, warm and bright. The orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lind, a meek little man whom heavenly people called Rachel Lind's husband, was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn, and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by green gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought, because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sew his turn-up seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet, here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill. Moreover he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avanley. he had the buggy and the soarhole mayor, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going, and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avanley, Mrs. Rachel, definitely putting this in that together might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him. He was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't up and off in Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoons enjoyment was spoiled. I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why. The worthy woman finally concluded. He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he never visits. If he'd run out of turnip seed, he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more. He wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonli today. Accordingly, after team Mrs. Rachel set out, she had not far to go. The big, rambling, orchard-emboward house where the Cuthbertts lived, was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynn's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthberts' father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he found it his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land, and there it was to this day. Barely visible from the main road along which all the other avenue houses were so socially situated. Mrs. Rachel Lind did not call living in such a place, living at all. It's just staying. That's what she said, as she stepped along the deep-reddit grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though deer knows if they were, there'd be enough of them. Right where they're looking at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough, but then, nice opposed, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, as the Irishman said. With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of green gables, very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with with primland parties. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately, she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrewing the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel wrapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidding to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment, Or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west. Through the west one, looking out on the backyard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight. But the east one, once you got a glimpse of the bloom-white cherry trees and left orchard and nodding. Slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. sat Marlala Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously. And here she sat now, knitting. and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting someone home with Matthew to tea. But the dishes were everyday dishes, and there was only crab apple preserves and one kind of cake so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the soarle mayor? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmisturious, green cables. Good evening, Rachel. Morales said briskly. This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks? Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel. In spite of, or perhaps because of, their disimmolarity. was a tall, thin woman with angles and without curves. Her dark hair showed some grey streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hair pins stuck through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was, but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel.

I- indicative of a sense of humor. "'We're all pretty well,' said Mrs. Rachel. I was kind of afraid you weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. And I thought maybe he was going to the doctors.' Morula's lip twitched, understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up. She had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. Oh no, I'm quite well. Although I had a bad headache yesterday, she said. Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan in a Sodylem in Nova Scotia, and he's coming on the train tonight. If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia. Mrs. Rachel

could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. Are you an earnest Mervila?

She demanded, when voice returned to her. Yes, of course, said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphaned silums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated avenue farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points, a boy, Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy. From an orphaned silent? Well, the world was certainly turning upside down. She would be surprised at nothing after this. Nothing. But on earth puts such a notion into your head. She demanded. nothing.

What on earth puts such a notion into your head?

She demanded, disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved. Well, we've been thinking about it for some time.

All winter in fact, returned to Marilla. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas, and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer had visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know he's 60 and he isn't so surprised he once was. This heart troubles him a great deal and you know how desperate heart it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had but those half-grown French boys and as soon as they're taught something they're up and off to the lobster canneries or the states. They'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a Canadian. So in the end, we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. her heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age, old enough to be of some use and doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper We mean to give him a good home in schooling We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today The mailman brought it from the station Saying they were coming on the 530 train tonight So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop them off there. Of course she goes on to White Sand station, herself. Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind. She proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news. Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a mighty foolish thing, a risky thing. That's what? You don't know what you're getting. You're bringing a strange child into your house and home, and you don't know a single thing about him, nor what his disposition is like. Nor would sort of parents he had, nor how he's likely to turn out. Why, I know a case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs. They couldn't break them of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter, which you didn't do, Marilla, I'd have said for mercy's sake not to think of such a thing. That's what. This, Job's comforting seemed neither too offend nor too alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on. I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that. So I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does, I always feel it's my duty to give in. And as far as the risk, there's risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. There's risks in peoples having children of their own if it comes to that. They don't always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the island. It isn't as if we were getting him from England or the States. He can't be much different from ourselves. Well, I hope it will turn out alright," said Mrs. Rachel, in a tone that plainly indicated her doubts. Only don't say I didn't warn you if he burns green gables down. You know, I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphaned asylum child did that. Only it was a girl in this instance. Well, we're not getting a girl," said Marilla, as if Arson were a purely feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. I'd never dreamed of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder if Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there...

Sh- I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder I'd miss his Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, she wouldn't shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head. Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan, but reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival, she concluded to go up to the road to Robert Bells and tell the news. It would certainly make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation.

So she took herself away somewhat to Morillus' relief, for the latter felt her doubts reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachel's pessimism. Well, all things that ever war or will be," said Mrs. Rachel, when she was safely out in the lane, it does really seem as if I must be dreaming. Well, I'm sorry for that poor young one, and no mistake. Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children, and they'll expect them to be wiser and steadier, that is own grandfather. If so be he's ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gapel somehow. There's never been one there. For Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built. If they ever were children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them, I wouldn't be in that orphaned shoes for anything. My, but I pity him. That's what. So said Mrs. Rachel, to the wild rose bushes, out of the fullness of her heart.

But if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the bright revestation that very moment her pity would have been still deeper and more profound. you you