March Came In That Winter Like The

Wouldn't It Be Nice If Roses Could Talk? I'm Sure They Could Tell Us Such Lovely Things.

I Know I Chatter On Far Too Much... But If You Only Knew How Many Things I Want To Say And Don't. Give Me Some Credit.

But Anne With Her Elbows On The Window Sill, Her Soft Cheek Laid Against Her Clasped Hands, And Her Eyes Filled With Visions, Looked Out Unheedingly Across City Roof And Spire To That Glorious Dome Of Sunset Sky And Wove Her Dreams Of A Possible Future From The Golden Tissue Of Youth's Own Optimism. All The Beyond Was Hers, With Its Possibilities Lurking Rosily In The Oncoming Years — Each Year A Rose Of Promise To Be Woven Into An Immortal Chaplet.

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.

"oh, Marilla, Looking Forward To Things Is Half The Pleasure Of Them," Exclaimed Anne. "you Mayn't Get The Things Themselves; But Nothing Can Prevent You From Having The Fun Of Looking Forward To Them. Mrs. Lynde Says, 'blessed Are They Who Expect Nothing For They Shall Not Be Disappointed.' But I Think It Would Be Worse To Expect Nothing Than To Be Disappointed.".