"Little Jerry Buote from the Creek was here this morning, and I told him
I guessed I'd hire him for the summer."

Marilla made no reply, but she hit the unlucky sorrel such a vicious
clip with the whip that the fat mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed
indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked back once
as the buggy bounced along and saw that aggravating Matthew leaning over
the gate, looking wistfully after them.

CHAPTER V. Anne's History

"Do you know," said Anne confidentially, "I've made up my mind to enjoy
this drive. It's been 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. Redheaded people can't wear pink, not even in
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."

Anne 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."

"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 Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It just
sounds like music. How far is it to W