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You're built to win it. Welcome to Snewscast. The podcast is on. Don't be full of sleep. Find us at Snewscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a well-conducted little stream. Tonight, we'll read the fifth chapter to Anne of Green Gables, the classic 1908 novel by Lucy Mott Montgomery. This chapter is titled Anne's History. Written for all ages, this book recounts the adventures of an 11-year-old orphan, named Anne Shirley, on Prince Edward Island, Canada. In the last episode Anne relishes the picturesque beauty of green gables, even while bracing herself for the painful reality of being taken away from it later that same day.

Matthew lets Marilla know that he is going to hire a farm boy to help him for the summer,

implying that they don't technically need to return the orphan girl for a boy.

Marilla sets off to visit Mrs. Spencer with end to figure out how the mistake could have happened.

Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the solness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. 5. ANS HISTORY Do you know, said AM, confidently, I've made up my mind to enjoy this drive. been my my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of course, you must make it up firmly. I am not going to think about going back to the asylum while we're having our drive. I'm just going to think about the drive. Oh look, there's one little early wild rose out. Isn't it lovely? Don't you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be nice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely things.

And isn't pink the most bewitching color in the world?

I love it, but I can't wear it.

Red-headed people can't wear pink.

Not even an imagination.

Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she was young, but got to be another color when she grew up? No, I don't know as I ever did," said Marilla, mercilessly, and I shouldn't think it likely to happen in your case either. And sighed. Well, that is another hope gone. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes. That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything. I don't see where the comforting comes in myself," said Marilla. Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, just as if I were a heroine in a book. You know, I am so fond of romantic things, and a graveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can imagine, isn't it? I'm rather glad I have one. Are we going across the lake of shining waters today?

We're not going over Barry's pond if that's what you mean by your lake of shining waters. We're going by the shore road. Our root sounds nice, said Ann, dreamily.

Is it as nice as it sounds? Shore Road sounds nice, said Anne, dreamily.

Is it as nice as it sounds? Just when you said Shore Road, I saw it in a picture in my mind as quick as that. And white sands is a pretty name too, But I don't like it as well as Avonley. Avonley is a lovely name. It just sounds like music. How far is it to white sands? five miles and as you're evidently bent on talking, you might as well talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself. Oh, what I know about myself isn't really worth telling, said Anne eagerly. If you'll only let me tell you what I imagine about myself,

you'll think it ever so much more interesting. No, I don't want any of your imaginings just you stick to bald facts. Begin at the beginning. Where were you born and how old are you?" I was 11 last March, Sadean, resigning herself to bald facts with a little sigh, and I was born in bowling-broke Nova Scotia. My father's name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in the bowling-broke high school. My mother's name was Bertha Shirley. Art Walter and Bertha lovely names. I'm so glad my parents had nice names. It would have been a real disgrace to have a father named, well, say, Jedadaya, what an it. I guess it doesn't matter what a person's name is as long as he behaved himself," said Marilla, feeling herself called upon to inculcate a good and useful moral. Well, I don't know. And looked thoughtful. I read in a book once that arose by any other name which smelled as sweet. But I have never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose would be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage. I suppose my father could have been a good man even if he had been called Jedadaya. But I'm sure it would have been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher in the high school too, but when she married father, she gave up teaching, of course. A husband was enough responsibility. This is Thomas said that they were a pair of babies and his poor is church mice. They went to live in a wieny teeny little yellow house in bowling broke. I've never seen that house, but I've imagined it thousands of times. I think it must have had honey-suckle over the parlor window and lilacs in the front yaw art. And lilies of the valley just inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains and all the windows. Muslin curtains give a house such an air. I was born in that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was the only baby she ever saw. I was so scrawny and tiny and nothing but eyes. But that mother thought I was perfectly beautiful. I should think a mother would be a better judge than a poor woman who came into scrap, wouldn't you? I'm glad she was satisfied with me anyhow. I would feel so sad if I thought I was a disappointment to her, because she didn't live very long after that, you see. She died of fever when I was just three months old. I do wish she'd lived long enough for me to remember calling her mother. I think it would be so sweet to say, Mother, don't you? And Father died four days afterwards from fever two. That left me an orphan, and folks were at their wit's end. But Mrs. Thomas said what to do with me.

You sh- and folks were at their wits end. So Mrs. Thomas said, what to do with me? You see nobody wanted me even then. It seemed to be my fate. Father and mother had both come from places far away, and it was well known they had in any relatives living. Finally Mrs. Thomas such she'd take me, if she was poor and had a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand. Do you know if there is anything in being brought up by hand that ought to make people who are brought up that way better than other people? Because whenever I was naughty Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be such a bad girl when she had brought me up by hand were approachful like. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from bowling-broken Mary'sville, and I lived with them until I was eight years old. I helped look after the Thomas children. There were four of them younger than me, and I could tell you that they took a lot of looking after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed falling under a train and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas on the children, but she didn't want me. Mrs. Thomas was at her wit's end, so she said what to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from up the river came down and said she'd take me, seeing I was handy with children. And I went up the river to live with her in a little clearing among the stumps. It was a very lonesome place. I'm sure I could never have lived there if I hadn't had an imagination. Mr. Hammond worked a little sawmill up there. And Mrs. Hammond had eight children. She had twins three times. I like babies and moderation. But twins, three times in succession? It's too much. I told Mrs. Hammond so firmly when the last pair came. I used to get so dreadfully tired carrying them about. I lived upriver with Mrs. Hammond over two years, and then Mr. Hammond died, and Mrs. Hammond broke up housekeeping. She divided her children among her relatives and went to the States. I had to go to the asylum at Alpton because nobody would take me. They didn't want me at the asylum either. They said they were overcrowded as it was. But they had to take me and I was there for months until Mrs. Spencer came. And finished up with another sigh of relief this time, evidently she did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not wanted her. Did you ever go to school, demanded Marilla, turning the soar all mayor down the shore road? Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs. Thomas. When I went up river, we were so far from a school that I couldn't walk in winter, and there was a vacation in summer, so I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course, I went while I was at the asylum. I can read pretty

well, and I know ever so many pieces of poetry by heart. Most of the Lady of the Lake, and most of the seasons by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a peace in the fifth reader, the downfall of Poland that is just full of thrills. Of course, I wasn't in the fifth reader. I was only in the fourth. But the big girls used to lend me theirs to read. Were those women Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond good to you? Asked Marilla, looking at Dan out of the corner of her eye. Fultored Anne, her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. They meant to be. I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not quite always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's very trying to have a drunken husband, you see. And it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession. Don't you think? I feel sure they meant to be good to me. Marilla asked no more questions, and gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road. and Marilla guided the sorrow abstractedly while

she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. a starved, unloved life she had had. A life of drudgery and poverty and neglect. For Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect of her real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthews on a countable whim and let her stay. He was set on it, and the child seemed a nice, teachable little thing. She's got too much to say, thought Marilla, but she might be trained out of that. And there's nothing rude or slainy in what she does say. She's ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks. The shore road was woodsea and wild and loansome. On the right hand, scrub furs, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf winds grew thickly. On the left were the steep red sandstone cliffs, sewn near the track and places that a mayor of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks, or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles, as with ocean jewels, beyond lay the sea, shimmering in blue, and over it soared the goals, their opinions flashing silvery in the sunlight. Isn't the sea wonderful?

Sedan, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence. Once, when I lived in Mary'sville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Mary's fell shore. Aren't those gulps splendid? Would you like to be a gul? I think I would. That is, if I couldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day, and then at night to fly back to once nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just a head please? That's the white sand's hotel, Mr. Kirk runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right. I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place.

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