Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the third chapter of Rainbow Valley.

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Be continuing rainbow Valley by Lucy Maud Montgomery chapter Three The Ingleside Children in daytime, the Blithe children liked very well to play in the rich, soft greens and glooms of the big maple grove between Ingleside and the Glen St.

Mary Pond.

But for evening revels, there was no place like the little valley behind the maple grove.

It was a fairy realm of romance to them.

Once, looking from the attic windows of Ingleside, through the mist and aftermath of a summer thunderstorm, they had seen the beloved spot arched by a glorious rainbow, one end of which seemed to dip straight down to where a corner of the pond ran up into the lower end of the valley.

Let's call it Rainbow Valley, said Walter, delightedly.

And Rainbow Valley vents forth.

It was outside of Rainbow Valley.

The wind might be rollicking and boisterous here it always went gently.

Little winding fairy paths ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned with moss.

Wild cherry trees that emblossome would be misty white or scattered all over the valley, mingling with the dark spruces.

A little brook with amber waters ran through it from the Glen village.

The houses of the village were comfortably far away.

Only at the upper end of the valley was a little tumbled down, deserted cottage referred to as the Old Bailey House.

It had not been occupied for many years, but a grass grown dike surrounded it.

And inside was an ancient garden where the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies and June lilies still in blooming season.

For the rest, the garden was overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed in the moonshine of summer eve, like seas of silver.

To the sawt lay the pond, and beyond it the ripened distance lost itself in purple woods, save where on a high hill, a solitary old grey homestead looked down on Glen and harbor.

There was a certain wild woods, enos and solitude about Rainbow Valley.

In spite of its nearness to the village which endeared it to the children of Ingleside.

The valley was full of deer friendly hollows and the largest of these was their favorite stamping ground.

Here they were assembled on this particular evening.

There was a grove of young spruces in this hollow with a tiny grassy glade in its heart.

Opening on the bank of the brook.

By the brook grew a silver birch tree, a young, incredibly straight thing which Walter had named the White Lady.

In this glade, too, were the tree lovers, as Walter called a spruce and a maple which grew so closely together that their boughs were inextricably intertwined.

Jim had hung an old string of sleigh bells given him by the Glenn blacksmith on the tree lovers, and every visitant breeze called out sudden fairy tinkles from it.

How nice it is to be back, said NAN.

After all, none of the Avonlee places are quite as nice as Rainbow Valley.

But they were very fond of the Avonlee places.

For all that, a visit to Green Gables was always considered a great treat.

Aunt Marilla was very good to them and so was Mrs.

Rachel Linde, who was spending the leisure of her old age in knitting cottonwarp quilts against the day when Aunt's Daughter should need a setting out.

There were jolly playmates there, too.

Uncle Davey's children and Aunt Diana's children.

They knew all the spots their mother had loved so well in her girlhood at Old Green Gables.

The long Lover's Lane that was Pink hedged in Wild Rosetime, the always neat yard with its willows and poplars, the dryad's bubble lucent and lovely as of Your, the Lake of Shining Waters and Willowmere.

The twins had their mother's old porch, gable room, and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night when she thought they were asleep to gloat over them.

But they all knew she loved JeM the best.

Gem was at present busily occupied in Frying, a mess of small trout which he had just caught in the pond.

His stove consisted of a circle of red stones with a fire kindled in it.

And his culinary utensils were an old tin can hammered out flat and a fork with only one time left.

Nevertheless, ripping good meals had before now been thus prepared.

JeM was the child of the House of Dreams.

All the others had been born at Ingleside.

He had curly red hair like his mother's and frank hazel eyes like his father's.

He had his mother's fine nose and his father's steady, humorous mouth.

And he was the only one of the family who had ears nice enough to please Susan.

But he had a standing feud with Susan because she would not give up calling him Little Gem.

It was outrageous, thought 13 year old Gem mother had more sense.

I'm not little anymore, mother.

He had cried indignantly on his 8th birthday.

I'm awful big.

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again, and she never called him Little Gem again in his hearing.

At least he was, and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap.

He never broke a promise.

He was not a great talker.

His teachers did not think him brilliant, but he was a good all round student.

He never took things on faith.

He always liked to investigate the truth of a statement for himself.

Once Susan had told him that if he touched his tongue to a frosty latch, all the skin would tear off.

Jim had promptly done it just to see if it was so.

He found it was so at the cost of a very sore tongue for several days.

But Jim did not grudge.

Suffering in the interests of science, like constant experiment and observation.

He learned a great deal, and his brothers and sisters thought his extensive knowledge of their little world quite wonderful.

Jim always knew where the first and ripest berries grew, where the first pale violet shyly awakened from their winter sleep, and how many blue eggs were in a given robin's nest in the maple grove.

He could tell fortunes from daisy petals and suck honey from red clovers and grub up all sorts of edible roots on the banks of the pond, while Susan went in daily fear that they would all be poisoned.

He knew where the finest spruce gum was to be found, impale amber knots on the likened bark.

He knew where the nuts grew thickest in the beechwoods around the harborhead, and where the best trouting places up the brooks were.

He could mimic the call of any wild bird or beast in four winds, and he knew the haunt of every wildflower from spring to autumn.

Walter Blithe was sitting under the White Lady with a volume of poems lying beside him, but he was not reading.

He was gazing now at the emerald misted willows by the pond, and now at a flock of clouds like little silver sheep herded by the wind that were drifting over Rainbow Valley with rapture in his wide, splendid eyes.

Walter's eyes were very wonderful.

All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and aspiration of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their dark gray depths.

Walter was a hop out of kin, as far as looks went.

He did not resemble any known relative.

He was quite the handsomest of the ingleside children, with straight black hair and finely modeled features.

But he had all his mother's vivid imagination and passionate love of beauty.

Frost of winter, invitation of spring, dream of summer, and glamour of autumn all meant much to Walter.

In school, where Jim was a chieftain, walter was not thought highly of.

He was supposed to be girly and milkstoppish because he never fought and seldom joined in the school sports, preferring to heard by himself in out of the way corners and read books, especially poetry books.

Walter loved the poets and poured over their pages from the time he could first read.

Their music was woven into his growing soul, the music of the immortals.

Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet himself.

Someday the thing could be done.

A certain Uncle Paul, so called out of courtesy, who lived now in that mysterious realm called the States, was Walter's model.

Uncle Paul had once been a little schoolboy in Avin Lee, and now his poetry was read everywhere.

But the Glenn schoolboys did not know of Walter's dreams and would not have been greatly impressed if they had.

In spite of his lack of physical prowess, however, he commanded a certain unwilling respect because of his power of talking book talk.

Nobody in Glynn St.

Mary's school could talk like him.

He sounded like a preacher, one boy said, and for this reason he was generally left alone and not persecuted, as most boys were, who were suspected of disliking or fearing fisticuffs.

The ten year old Engelside twins violated twin tradition by not looking in the least alike.

Anne, who was always called NAN, was very pretty, with velvety nut brown eyes and silky nut brown hair.

She was a very blithe and dainty little maiden, blithe by name and blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said.

Her complexion was quite faultless, much to her mother's satisfaction.

I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink, Mrs.

Blythe was wont to say jubilantly.

Diana Blive, known as Die, was very like her mother, with grey green eyes that always shone with a peculiar lustre and brilliancy in the dusk and red hair.

Perhaps this was why she was her father's favorite.

She and Walter were especial chums.

I was the only one to whom he would ever read the verses he wrote himself, the only one who knew that he was secretly hard at work on an epic strikingly resembling Marmian in some things if not in others.

She kept all his secrets, even from NAN, and told him all hers.

Won't you soon have those fish ready, Jim?

Said NAN, sniffing with her dainty nose.

The smell makes me awfully hungry.

They are nearly ready, said Jim, giving one a dexterous turn.

Get out the bread and plates, girls.

Walter, wake up.

How the air shines tonight, said Walter dreamily.

Not that he despised fried trout either, by any means, but with Walter, food for the soul always took first place.

The flower angel's been walking over the world today, calling to the flowers.

I can see his blue wings on that hill by the woods.

Any angels wings I ever saw were white, said NAN.

The flower's angels aren't.

They are pale, misty blue, just like the haze in the valley.

Oh, how I wish I could fly.

It must be glorious.

One does fly and dream sometimes, said Die.

I never dream that I'm flying.

Exactly, said Walter.

But I often dream that I just rise up from the ground and float over the fences and the trees.

It's delightful.

And I always think, this isn't a dream like it's always been before.

This is real.

And then I wake up after all, and it's heartbreaking.

Hurry up.

Ordered gem.

NAN had produced the banquet board, a board literally as well as figuratively, from which many a feast, seasoned as no vines were elsewhere, had been eaten in Rainbow Valley.

It was converted into a table by propping it on two large mottie stones.

Newspapers served as tablecloth and broken plates and handless.

Cups from Susan's Discard furnished the dishes from a tin box secreted at the root of a spruce tree.

NAN brought forth bread and salt.

The brook gave Adam's ale of unsurpassed crystal.

For the rest, there was a certain sauce compounded of fresh air and appetite of youth which gave to everything a divine flavor.

To sit in Rainbow Valley steeped in a twilight half gold, half amethyst rife with the odors of balsam fur and Woodsey growing things in their springtime prime with the pale stars of wild strawberry blossoms all around you and with the suff of the wind and tinkle of bells and the shaking treetops and eat fried trout and dry bread with something which the mighty of earth might have envied them.

Sit in, invited NAN, as Jim placed his sizzling tin platter of trout on the table.

It's your turn to say grace, Jim.

I've done my part.

Frying the trout, protested Jim, who hated saying grace.

Let Walter say it.

He likes sang grace.

And cut it short, too, Walt.

I'm starving.

But Walt said, no grace, short or long.

Just then, an interruption occurred.

Who's coming down from the MANTS hill?

Said Die.

Thank you for joining Bite at a.

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Again, my name is Brie Carlyle, and I hope you'll come back tomorrow for the next bite of Rainbow Valley.

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