Lucy Maud Montgomery:
(November 30, 1874 – April 24, 1942).
Published as L. M. Montgomery, was a Canadian author best known for a collection of novels, essays, short stories, and poetry beginning in 1908 with Anne of Green Gables. She published 20 novels as well as 530 short stories, 500 poems, and 30 essays.
It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind songs in the pines.
It was a lovely afternoon—such an afternoon as only September can produce when summer has stolen back for one more day of dream and glamour.
For the rest of the vacation, there was hardly a day when they did not go up to it. Preferably in the long, smoky, delicious August evenings when the white moths sailed over the tansy plantation, and the golden twilight faded into dusk and purple over the green slopes beyond, and fireflies lighted their goblin torches by the pond.
A cold in the head in June is an immoral thing.
I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.
You have to remember to be thankful. But in May, one simply can’t help being thankful that they are alive, if for nothing else.
November is usually such a disagreeable month as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old gracefully, just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We’ve had lovely days and delicious twilights.
I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
Snow in April is abominable,” said Anne. “Like a slap in the face when you expected a kiss.”
Today has been a day dropped out of June into April.
March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.
March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.
They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding silence—a silence which was yet threaded through with many little silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset.
But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them.
