The luckless Improvers expected that Avonlea would be more prejudiced than ever against them; but instead, public sympathy veered around in their favor.  People thought the eager, enthusiastic little band who had worked so hard for their object had been badly used.  Mrs. Lynde told them to keep on and show the Pyes that there really were people in the world who could do things without making a muddle of them.  Mr. Major Spencer sent them word that he would clean out all the stumps along the road front of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own expense; and Mrs. Hiram Sloane called at the school one day and beckoned Anne mysteriously out into the porch to tell her that if the “Sassiety” wanted to make a geranium bed at the crossroads in the spring they needn’t be afraid of her cow, for she would see that the marauding animal was kept within safe bounds.  Even Mr. Harrison chuckled, if he chuckled at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly.

“Never mind, Anne.  Most paints fade uglier every year but that blue is as ugly as it can be to begin with, so it’s bound to fade prettier.  And the roof is shingled and painted all right.  Folks will be able to sit in the hall after this without being leaked on.  You’ve accomplished so much anyhow.”

“But Avonlea’s blue hall will be a byword in all the neighboring settlements from this time out,” said Anne bitterly.

And it must be confessed that it was.

X

Davy in Search of a Sensation

Anne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one November afternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing.  The day had been a good day; all had gone well in her little kingdom.  St. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the question of his name; Prillie Rogerson’s face had been so puffed up from the effects of toothache that she did not once try to coquette with the boys in her vicinity.  Barbara Shaw had met with only one accident . . . spilling a dipper of water over the floor . . . and Anthony Pye had not been in school at all.

“What a nice month this November has been!” said Anne, who had never quite got over her childish habit of talking to herself.  “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.  This last fortnight has been so peaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved.  I really think he is improving a great deal.  How quiet the woods are today . . . not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops!  It sounds like surf on a faraway shore.  How dear the woods are!  You beautiful trees!  I love every one of you as a friend.”