“I only pulled six of them up,” protested Davy.  “I wanted to see if there was grubs at the roots.  Milty Boulter said if it wasn’t the moon’s fault it must be grubs.  But I only found one grub.  He was a great big juicy curly grub.  I put him on a stone and got another stone and smashed him flat.  He made a jolly squish I tell you.  I was sorry there wasn’t more of them.  Dora’s garden was planted same time’s mine and her things are growing all right.  It can’t be the moon,” Davy concluded in a reflective tone.

“Marilla, look at that apple tree,” said Anne.  “Why, the thing is human.  It is reaching out long arms to pick its own pink skirts daintily up and provoke us to admiration.”

“Those Yellow Duchess trees always bear well,” said Marilla complacently.  “That tree’ll be loaded this year.  I’m real glad. . . they’re great for pies.”

But neither Marilla nor Anne nor anybody else was fated to make pies out of Yellow Duchess apples that year.

The twenty-third of May came . . . an unseasonably warm day, as none realized more keenly than Anne and her little beehive of pupils, sweltering over fractions and syntax in the Avonlea schoolroom.  A hot breeze blew all the forenoon; but after noon hour it died away into a heavy stillness.  At half past three Anne heard a low rumble of thunder.  She promptly dismissed school at once, so that the children might get home before the storm came.

As they went out to the playground Anne perceived a certain shadow and gloom over the world in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining brightly.  Annetta Bell caught her hand nervously.

“Oh, teacher, look at that awful cloud!”

Anne looked and gave an exclamation of dismay.  In the northwest a mass of cloud, such as she had never in all her life beheld before, was rapidly rolling up.  It was dead black, save where its curled and fringed edges showed a ghastly, livid white.  There was something about it indescribably menacing as it gloomed up in the clear blue sky; now and again a bolt of lightning shot across it, followed by a savage growl.  It hung so low that it almost seemed to be touching the tops of the wooded hills.

Mr. Harmon Andrews came clattering up the hill in his truck wagon, urging his team of grays to their utmost speed.  He pulled them to a halt opposite the school.

“Guess Uncle Abe’s hit it for once in his life, Anne,” he shouted.  “His storm’s coming a leetle ahead of time.  Did ye ever see the like of that cloud?  Here, all you young ones, that are going my way, pile in, and those that ain’t scoot for the post office if ye’ve more’n a quarter of a mile to go, and stay there till the shower’s over.”

Anne caught Davy and Dora by the hands and flew down the hill, along the Birch Path, and past Violet Vale and Willowmere, as fast as the twins’ fat legs could go.  They reached Green Gables not a moment too soon and were joined at the door by Marilla, who had been hustling her ducks and chickens under shelter.  As they dashed into the kitchen the light seemed to vanish, as if blown out by some mighty breath; the awful cloud rolled over the sun and a darkness as of late twilight fell across the world.  At the same moment, with a crash of thunder and a blinding glare of lightning, the hail swooped down and blotted the landscape out in one white fury.