Аня из Авонлеи

XIII. A Golden Picnic

           onthesteepbankofagurglingbrookwherewhitebirchesshotupoutoflongfeatherygrasses.ThegirlssatdownbytherootsanddidfulljusticetoAnne’sdainties,eventheunpoeticalsandwichesbeinggreatlyappreciatedbyhearty,unspoiledappetitessharpenedbyallthefreshairandexercisetheyhadenjoyed.Annehadbroughtglassesandlemonadeforherguests,butforherownpartdrankcoldbrookwaterfromacupfashionedoutofbirchbark.Thecupleaked,andthewatertastedofearth,asbrookwaterisapttodoinspring;butAnnethoughtitmoreappropriatetotheoccasionthanlemonade.

           “Lookdoyouseethatpoem?”shesaidsuddenly,pointing.

           “Where?”JaneandDianastared,asifexpectingtoseeRunicrhymesonthebirchtrees.

           “There...downinthebrook...thatoldgreen,mossylogwiththewaterflowingoveritinthosesmoothripplesthatlookasifthey’dbeencombed,andthatsingleshaftofsunshinefallingrightathwartit,fardownintothepool.Oh,it’sthemostbeautifulpoemIeversaw.”

           “Ishouldrathercallitapicture,”saidJane.“Apoemislinesandverses.”

           “Ohdearme,no.”Anneshookherheadwithitsfluffywildcherrycoronalpositively.“ThelinesandversesareonlytheoutwardgarmentsofthepoemandarenomorereallyitthanyourrufflesandflouncesareYOU,Jane.Therealpoemisthesoulwithinthem...andthatbeautifulbitisthesoulofanunwrittenpoem.Itisnoteverydayoneseesasoul...evenofapoem.”

           “Iwonderwhatasoul...aperson’ssoul...wouldlooklike,”saidPriscilladreamily

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