I loved the drama and the romance, and the beautiful descriptions of the Canadian wilds. What a great book! It's a treat to read, just a joy with every page! Montgomery's writing is. This has quickly become one of my favorite books. Similar to the very successful tales of Anne of Green Gables the novels in this book tell the story of another young Canadian orphan called Emily Starr. In three beautifully written novels the reader follows her teenage years, her first romances and adventures.
A wonderful read not only for young women. Contains the novels: Emily of New Moon Emily Climbs Emily's Quest This is the extended and annotated edition including an autobiographical annotation by the author herself. Emily Climbs is the second in a series of novels by Lucy Maud Montgomery. While the legal battle with Montgomery's publishing company L.
Page continued, Montgomery's husband Ewan MacDonald continued to suffer clinical depression. Montgomery, tired of writing the Anne series, created a new heroine[1] named Emily. At the same time as writing, Montgomery was also copying her journal from her early years. The biographical elements heavily influenced the Emily trilogy. Moving in with the grandfather she never knew after the death of her mother, year-old Emily witnesses bizarre supernatural activities in her new North Carolina community while befriending its remarkable residents.
By the author of The Sugar Queen. Emily Starr and Teddy Kent have been friends since childhood, and as Teddy is about to leave to further his education as an artist, Emily believes that their friendship is blossoming into something more.
On his last night at home, they vow to think of each other when they see the star Vega of the Lyre. As Emily grows as a writer and learns to deal with the loneliness of having her closest friends gone, life at New Moon changes. Carpenter, Emily's most truthful critic and favorite teacher dies warning Emily, even as he dies to "Beware of italics. She becomes closer to Dean Priest, even as she fears he wants love when she only has friendship to give.
Worst of all, Emily and Teddy become distant as he focuses on building his career and she hides her feelings behind pride. The Story Girl is an exquisitely written narrative of the doings of eight children during a Summer spent on an old farm near Charlottetown, Prince Edward's Isle. Chief among them is the Story Girl—a child of fourteen, with a wonderfully vivid and original imagination and exceptional histrionic powers, whose fanciful tales arc interspersed through the record of the joys and petty sorrows which are the lot of healthy, happy children.
The author has an intuitive knowledge of child nature and the characters are all real flesh and blood children.
Few and far between are books like this, and hence they give a greater pleasure to the reader who is carried back to his or her own childhood to live again those joyous carefree days.
They hope this sacrifice will keep her from terrorizing their town. Where should she go? Down the brook--or over the fields to the spruce barrens? Emily chose the latter. She loved the spruce barrens, away at the further end of the long, sloping pasture.
That was a place where magic was made. She came more fully into her fairy birthright there than in any other place. Nobody who saw Emily skimming over the bare field would have envied her. She was little and pale and poorly clad; sometimes she shivered in her thin jacket; yet a queen might have gladly given a crown for her visions--her dreams of wonder. The brown, frosted grasses under her feet were velvet piles.
The old mossy, gnarled half-dead spruce-tree, under which she paused for a moment to look up into the sky, was a marble column in a palace of the gods; the far dusky hills were the ramparts of a city of wonder. And for companions she had all the fairies of the country-side--for she could believe in them here--the fairies of the white clover and satin catkins, the little green folk of the grass, the elves of the young fir-trees, sprites of wind and wild fern and thistledown.
Anything might happen there--everything might come true. And the barrens were such a splendid place in which to play hide and seek with the Wind Woman. She was so very real there; if you could just spring quickly enough around a little cluster of spruces--only you never could--you would see her as well as feel her and hear her.
There she was--that was the sweep of her grey cloak--no, she was laughing up in the very top of the taller trees--and the chase was on again--till, all at once, it seemed as if the Wind Woman were gone--and the evening was bathed in a wonderful silence--and there was a sudden rift in the curdled clouds westward, and a lovely, pale, pinky-green lake of sky with a new moon in it.
Emily stood and looked at it with clasped hands and her little black head upturned. She must go home and write down a description of it in the yellow account-book, where the last thing written had been, "Mike's Biography.
Then she would read it to Father. She must not forget how the tips of the trees on the hill came out like fine black lace across the edge of the pinky-green sky. Emily called it that, although she felt that the name didn't exactly describe it. It couldn't be described--not even to Father, who always seemed a little puzzled by it. Emily never spoke of it to any one else.
It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside--but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond--only a glimpse--and heard a note of unearthly music.
This moment came rarely--went swiftly, leaving her breathless with the inexpressible delight of it. She could never recall it--never summon it--never pretend it; but the wonder of it stayed with her for days. It never came twice with the same thing.
To-night the dark boughs against that far-off sky had given it. It had come with a high, wild note of wind in the night, with a shadow wave over a ripe field, with a greybird lighting on her window-sill in a storm, with the singing of "Holy, holy, holy" in church, with a glimpse of the kitchen fire when she had come home on a dark autumn night, with the spirit-like blue of ice palms on a twilit pane, with a felicitous new word when she was writing down a "description" of something.
And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty. She scuttled back to the house in the hollow, through the gathering twilight, all agog to get home and write down her "description" before the memory picture of what she had seen grew a little blurred. She knew just how she would begin it--the sentence seemed to shape itself in her mind: "The hill called to me and something in me called back to it.
She found Ellen Greene waiting for her on the sunken front-doorstep. Emily was so full of happiness that she loved everything at that moment, even fat things of no importance. She flung her arms around Ellen's knees and hugged them. Ellen looked down gloomily into the rapt little face, where excitement had kindled a faint wild-rose flush, and said, with a ponderous sigh:.
Emily stood quite still and looked up at Ellen's broad, red face--as still as if she had been suddenly turned to stone. She felt as if she had. She was as stunned as if Ellen had struck her a physical blow. The colour faded out of her little face and her pupils dilated until they swallowed up the irises and turned her eyes into pools of blackness.
The effect was so startling that even Ellen Greene felt uncomfortable. I says to him, says I, 'You know how hard she takes things, and if you drop off suddent some day it'll most kill her if she hasn't been prepared. It's your duty to prepare her,' and he says, says he, 'There's time enough yet, Ellen. Laws-a-massy, child, don't look like that! You'll be looked after. Your ma's people will see to that--on account of the Murray pride, if for no other reason. They won't let one of their own blood starve or go to strangers--even if they have always hated your pa like p'isen.
You'll have a good home--better'n you've ever had here. You needn't worry a mite. As for your pa, you ought to be thankful to see him at rest. He's been dying by inches for the last five years. He's kept it from you, but he's been a great sufferer. Folks say his heart broke when your ma died--it came on him so suddent-like--she was only sick three days.
That's why I want you to know what's coming, so's you won't be all upset when it happens. For mercy's sake, Emily Byrd Starr, don't stand there staring like that!
You give me the creeps! You ain't the first child that's been left an orphan and you won't be the last. Try and be sensible. And don't go pestering your pa about what I've told you, mind that. Come you in now, out of the damp, and I'll give you a cooky 'fore you go to bed. Ellen stepped 'down as if to take the child's hand.
The power of motion returned to Emily--she must scream if Ellen even touched her now. With one sudden, sharp, bitter little cry she avoided Ellen's hand, darted through the door and fled up the dark staircase.
Ellen shook her head and waddled back to her kitchen. She'll have time now to get used to it, and she'll brace up in a day or two. I will say for her she's got spunk--which is lucky, from all I've heard of the Murrays. They won't find it easy to overcrow her. She's got a streak of their pride, too, and that'll help her through. I wish I dared send some of the Murrays word that he's dying, but I don't dast go that far. There's no telling what he'd do. Well, I've stuck on here to the last and I ain't sorry.
Not many women would 'a' done it, living as they do here. It's a shame the way that child's been brought up--never even sent to school. Well, I've told him often enough what I've thought of it--it ain't on my conscience, that's one comfort. Here, you Sal-thing, you git out! Where's Mike, too? Ellen could not find Mike for the very good reason that he was upstairs with Emily, held tightly in her arms, as she sat in the darkness on her little cot-bed. Amid her agony and desolation there was a certain comfort in the feel of his soft fur and round velvety head.
Emily was not crying; she stared straight into the darkness, trying to face the awful thing Ellen had told her. She did not doubt it--something told her it was true. Why couldn't she die, too? She couldn't go on living without Father. She felt it was very wicked of her to say such a thing--Ellen had told her once that it was the wickest thing any one could do to find fault with God. But she didn't care.
Perhaps if she were wicked enough God would strike her dead and then she and Father could keep on being together. But nothing happened--only Mike got tired of being held so tightly and squirmed away.
She was all alone now, with this terrible burning pain that seemed all over her and yet was not of the body. She could never get rid of it. She couldn't help it by writing about it in the old yellow account-book. She had written there about her Sunday-school teacher going away, and of being hungry when she went to bed, and Ellen telling her she must be half-crazy to talk of Wind Women and flashes; and after she had written down all about them these things hadn't hurt her any more.
But this couldn't be written about. She could not even go to Father for comfort, as she had gone when she burned her hand so badly, picking up the red-hot poker by mistake. Father had held her in his arms all that night and told her stories and helped her to bear the pain. But Father, so Ellen had said, was going to die in a week or two.
Emily felt as if Ellen had told her this years and years ago. It surely couldn't be less than an hour since she had been playing with the Wind Woman in the barrens and looking at the new moon in the pinky-green sky. But Emily had inherited certain things from her fine old ancestors--the power to fight--to suffer,--to pity--to love very deeply--to rejoice--to endure.
These things were all in her and looked out at you through her purplish-grey eyes. Her heritage of endurance came to her aid now and bore her up. She must not let Father know what Ellen had told her--it might hurt him. She must keep it all to herself and love Father, oh, so much, in the little while she could yet have him.
She heard him cough in the room below: she must be in bed when he came up; she undressed as swiftly as her cold fingers permitted and crept into the little cot-bed which stood across the open window.
The voices of the gentle spring night called to her all unheeded--unheard the Wind Woman whistled by the eaves. For the fairies dwell only in the kingdom of Happiness; having no souls they cannot enter the kingdom of Sorrow. She lay there cold and tearless and motionless when her father came into the room. How very slowly he walked--how very slowly he took off his clothes. How was it she had never noticed these things before? But he was not coughing at all. Oh, what if Ellen were mistaken?
She gave a little gasp. Douglas Starr came over to her bed. She felt his dear nearness as he sat down on the chair beside her, in his old red dressing-gown. Oh, how she loved him! There was no other Father like him in all the world--there never could have been--so tender, so understanding, so wonderful! They had always been such chums--they had loved each other so much--it couldn't be that they were to be separated. Douglas Starr was silent for a moment.
Then he said under his breath, "The old fool--the fat old fool! Again, for the last time, Emily hoped. Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake--just some more of Ellen's fat foolishness. Emily slipped out of bed and got on her father's knee.
He wrapped the old dressing-gown about her and held her close with his face against hers. And now the old absurdity of an Ellen has told you--brutally I suppose--and hurt you dreadfully. She has the brain of a hen and the sensibility of a cow.
May jackals sit on her grandmother's grave! I wouldn't have hurt you, dear. You will live because there is something for you to do, I think. You have my gift--along with something I never had. You will succeed where I failed, Emily.
I haven't been able to do much for you, sweetheart, but I've done what I could. I've taught you something, I think--in spite of Ellen Greene. Emily, do you remember your mother? I've never talked much to you about her--I couldn't. But I'm going to tell you all about her to-night. It doesn't hurt me to talk of her now--I'll see her so soon again. You don't look like her, Emily--only when you smile.
For the rest, you're like your namesake, my mother. When you were born I wanted to call you Juliet, too. But your mother wouldn't. She said if we called you Juliet then I'd soon take to calling her 'Mother' to distinguish between you, and she couldn't endure that.
She said her Aunt Nancy had once said to her, 'The first time your husband calls you "Mother" the romance of life is over. Your mother thought Emily the prettiest name in the world--it was quaint and arch and delightful, she said. Emily, your mother was the sweetest woman ever made. She was tall and fair and blue-eyed. She looked a little like your Aunt Laura, but Laura was never so pretty. Their eyes were very much alike--and their voices.
She was one of the Murrays from Blair Water. I've never told you much about your mother's people, Emily. They live up on the old north shore at Blair Water on New Moon Farm--always have lived there since the first Murray came out from the Old Country in The ship he came on was called the New Moon and he named his farm after her.
They're a proud family--the Murray pride is a byword along the north shore, Emily. Well, they had some things to be proud of, that cannot be denied--but they carried it too far. Folks call them 'the chosen people' up there. Only your aunts, Elizabeth and Laura, live there now, and their cousin, Jimmy Murray. They never married--could not find any one good enough for a Murray, so it used to be said. Feeling Father's arm around her the horror had momentarily shrunk away.
For just a little while she ceased to believe it. Douglas Starr tucked the dressing-gown a little more closely around her, kissed her black head, and went on. His first wife was their mother.
When he was sixty he married again--a young slip of a girl--who died when your mother was born. Juliet was twenty years younger than her half-family, as she used to call them. She was very pretty and charming and they all loved and petted her and were very proud of her.
When she fell in love with me, a poor young journalist, with nothing in the world but his pen and his ambition, there was a family earthquake. The Murray pride couldn't tolerate the thing at all. I won't rake it all up--but things were said I could never forget or forgive. Your mother married me, Emily--and the New Moon people would have nothing more to do with her.
Can you believe that, in spite of it, she was never sorry for marrying me? Of course she'd rather have you than all the Murrays of any kind of a moon. And we were so happy--oh, Emilykin, there never were two happier people in the world.
You were the child of that happiness. I remember the night you were born in the little house in Charlottetown. It was in May and a west wind was blowing silvery clouds over the moon. There was a star or two here and there. In our tiny garden--everything we had was small except our love and our happiness--it was dark and blossomy. I walked up and down the path between the beds of violets your mother had planted--and prayed.
The pale east was just beginning to glow like a rosy pearl when someone came and told me I had a little daughter. I went in--and your mother, white and weak, smiled just that dear, slow, wonderful smile I loved, and said, 'We've--got--the--only--baby--of any importance--in--the--world, dear. Just--think--of that! But you didn't seem to find it hard, for you were a good wee kidlet, Emily. We had four more happy years, and then--do you remember the time your mother died, Emily? You were standing in the middle of a room, holding me in your arms, and Mother was lying just before us in a long, black box.
And you were crying--and I couldn't think why--and I wondered why Mother looked so white and wouldn't open her eyes. And I leaned down and touched her cheek--and oh, it was so cold. It made me shiver. And somebody in the room said, 'Poor little thing! Your mother died very suddenly.
I don't think we'll talk about it. The Murrays all came to her funeral. The Murrays have certain traditions and they live up to them very strictly. One of them is that nothing but candles shall be burned for light at New Moon--and another is that no quarrel must be carried past the grave. They came when she was dead--they would have come when she was ill if they had known, I will say that much for them. And they behaved very well--oh, very well indeed.
They were not the Murrays of New Moon for nothing. Your Aunt Elizabeth wore her best black satin dress to the funeral. For any funeral but a Murray's the second best one would have done; and they made no serious objection when I said your mother would be buried in the Starr plot in Charlottetown cemetery. They would have liked to take her back to the old Murray burying-ground in Blair Water--they had their own private burying-ground, you know--no indiscriminate graveyard for them.
But your Uncle Wallace handsomely admitted that a woman should belong to her husband's family in death as in life. And then they offered to take you and bring you up--to 'give you your mother's place.
Did I do right, Emily? He said, 'If you ever change your mind, let us know. I came out here and we've had four lovely years together, haven't we, small dear one? We've been living on a tiny income I have from a life interest that was left me in an old uncle's estate--an uncle who died before I was married. The estate goes to a charity now, and this little house is only a rented one. From a worldly point of view I've certainly been a failure. But your mother's people will care for you--I know that.
The Murray pride will guarantee so much, if nothing else. And they can't help loving you. Perhaps I should have sent for them before--perhaps I ought to do it yet.
But I have pride of a kind, too--the Starrs are not entirely traditionless--and the Murrays said some very bitter things to me when I married your mother. Will I send to New Moon and ask them to come, Emily? She did not want any one to come between her and Father for the few precious days left. The thought was horrible to her. It would be bad enough if they had to come--afterwards. But she would not mind anything much--then.
We won't be parted for a minute. And I want you to be brave. You mustn't be afraid of anything, Emily. Death isn't terrible. The universe is full of love--and spring comes everywhere--and in death you open and shut a door. There are beautiful things on the other side of the door. I'll find your mother there--I've doubted many things, but I've never doubted that. Sometimes I've been afraid that she would get so far ahead of me in the ways of eternity that I'd never catch up.
But I feel now that she's waiting for me. And we'll wait for you--we won't hurry--we'll loiter and linger till you catch up with us. You have yet to learn how kind time is. And life has something for you--I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don't feel like that just now--but you will remember my words by and by. Douglas Starr laughed--the laugh Emily liked best.
It was such a dear laugh--she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She felt his arms tightening round her.
You can't help liking God. He is Love itself, you know. You mustn't mix Him up with Ellen Greene's God, of course. Emily didn't know exactly what Father meant.
But all at once she found that she wasn't afraid any longer--and the bitterness had gone out of her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart. She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness.
One couldn't be afraid or bitter where love was--and love was everywhere. Father was going through the door--no, he was going to lift a curtain--she liked that thought better, because a curtain wasn't as hard and fast as a door--and he would slip into that world of which the flash had given her glimpses.
He would be there in its beauty--never very far away from her. She could bear anything if she could only feel that Father wasn't very far away from her--just beyond that wavering curtain. Douglas Starr held her until she fell asleep; and then in spite of his weakness he managed to lay her down in her little bed.
As her mother's people deal with her, so may God deal with them," he murmured brokenly. Douglas Starr lived two weeks more. In after years when the pain had gone out of their recollection, Emily thought they were the most precious of her memories.
They were beautiful weeks--beautiful and not sad. And one night, when he was lying on the couch in the sitting-room, with Emily beside him in the old wing-chair, he went past the curtain--went so quietly and easily that Emily did not know he was gone until she suddenly felt the strange stillness of the room--there was no breathing in it but her own.
Ellen Greene told the Murrays when they came that Emily had behaved real well, when you took everything into account. To be sure, she had cried all night and hadn't slept a wink; none of the Maywood people who came flocking kindly in to help could comfort her; but when morning came her tears were all shed. She was pale and quiet and docile. Your pa was so mad at me for warning you that he wasn't rightly civil to me since--and him a dying man.
Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Leave this field empty. This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish.
Accept Read More. Close Privacy Overview This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent.
DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed. Loved each and every part of this book.
I will definitely recommend this book to classics, fiction lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Montgomery Free Download pages Author L.
Montgomery Submitted by: Jane Kivik.
0コメント