Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the sixteenth chapter of Anne of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

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So many adventures and mountains we can climb take it worth a word line but line we're part at our time.

Welcome to Bite at a Time Books, where we read you your favorite classics one byte at a time.

My name is Brie Carlyle, and I love to read and wanted to share my passion with listeners like you.

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Today we'll be continuing anne of Aven Lee by Lucy Maud Montgomery 16 the substance of things hoped for, Anne, said Davy appealingly, scrambling up on the shiny leathercovered sofa in the Green Gables kitchen, where Anne sat reading a letter.

Anne, I'm awful hungry.

You've no idea.

I'll get you a piece of bread and butter in a minute, said Anne absently.

Her letter evidently contained some exciting news, for her cheeks were as pink as the roses on the big bush outside, and her eyes were as starry as only Anne's eyes could be.

But I ain't bread and butter hungry, said Davy in a disgusted tone.

I'm plum cake hungry.

Oh, laughed Anne, laying down her letter and putting her arm about Davey to give him a squeeze.

That's a kind of hunger that can be endured very comfortably, Davey boy.

You know, it's one of Marilla's rules that you can't have anything but bread and butter between meals.

Well, give me a piece then, please.

Davy had been at last taught to say please, but he generally tacked it on as an afterthought.

He looked with approval at the generous slice and presently brought to him.

You will always put such a nice lot of butter on it, Anne.

Marilla spreads it pretty thin.

It slips down a lot easier when there's plenty of butter.

The slice slipped down with tolerable ease, judging from its rapid disappearance.

Davy slid headfirst off the sofa, turned a double somersault on the rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly ann, I've made up my mind about heaven.

I don't want to go there.

Why not?

Asked Anne gravely.

Because heaven is in Simon Fletcher's garret and I don't like Simon Fletcher.

Heaven in Simon Fletcher's.

Garrett, gasped Anne, too amazed even to laugh.

Davy, Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head?

Milty Bolter says that's where it is.

It was last Sunday and Sunday school.

The lesson was about Elijah and Elisha, and I often asked Ms.

Rogerson where heaven was.

Ms.

Rogerson looked awful offended.

She was cross, anyhow, because when she'd asked us what Elijah left Elisha when he went to Heaven, Millie Bolter said, his old clothes and us fellows all laughed before we thought, I wish you could think first and do things afterwards, because then you wouldn't do them.

But nope, he didn't mean to be disrespectful.

He just couldn't think of the name of the thing.

Ms Rogerson said heaven was where God was and I wasn't to ask questions like that.

Milty nudged me and said in a whisper, heavens and Uncle Simon's Garrett and I'll explain about it on the road home.

So when we was coming home, he explained Milty's a great hand at explaining things, even if you don't know anything about a thing, he'll make up a lot of stuff and so you get it explained all the same.

His mother is Mrs Simon's sister and he went with her to the funeral when his cousin Jane Ellen died.

The minister said she'd gone to heaven, though Milty says she was lying right before them in the coffin.

But he supposed they carried the coffin to the garret afterwards.

Well, when Milthey and his mother went upstairs after it was all over to get her bonnet, he asked her where heaven was that Jane Ellen had gone to, and she pointed right to the ceiling and said, up there.

Milthey knew there wasn't anything but the garret over the ceiling, so that's how he found out.

And he's been awful scared to go to his Uncle Simons ever since.

Anne took Davy on her knee and did her best to straighten out this theological tangle.

Also, she was much better fitted for the task than Marilla, for she remembered her own childhood and had an instinctive understanding of the curious ideas that sevenyearolds sometimes get about matters that are, of course, very plain and simple to grownup people.

She had just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was not in Simon Fletcher's garret when Marilla came in from the garden where she and Dora had been picking peas.

Dora was an industrious little soul and never happier than when helping in various small tasks suited to her chubby fingers.

She fed chickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes and ran erin's Galore she was neat, faithful and observant.

She never had to be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot any of her little duties.

Davy, on the other hand, was rather heedless and forgetful, but he had the born knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Marilla liked him the better.

While Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy made boats of the pods with masts of matches and sails of paper, anne told Marilla about the wonderful contents of her letter.

Oh, Marilla, what do you think?

I've had a letter from Priscilla and she says that Mrs Morgan is on the island and that if it is fine Thursday, we're going to drive up to Avonlea and we'll reach her about twelve.

They will spend the afternoon with us and go to the hotel at White Sands in the evening, because some of Mrs Morgan's American friends are staying there.

Oh, Marilla, isn't it wonderful?

I can hardly believe I'm not dreaming.

I dare say Mrs.

Morgan is a lot like other people, said Marilla dryly, although she did feel a trifle excited herself.

Mrs.

Morgan was a famous woman, and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence.

They'll be here to dinner, then?

Yes, and, oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of the dinner myself?

I want to feel that I can do something for the author of The Rosebud Garden if it is only to cook a dinner for her.

You won't mind, will you?

Goodness, I'm not so fond of stewing over a hot fire in July that it would vex me very much to have someone else do it.

You're quite welcome to the job.

Oh, thank you, said Anne, as if Marilla had just conferred a tremendous favor.

I'll make out the menu this very night.

You'd better not try to put on too much style, warned Marilla, a little alarmed by the high flown sound of menu.

You'll likely come to grief if you do.

Oh, I'm not going to put on any style.

If you mean trying to do or have things we don't usually have on festal occasions, assured Anne, that would be affection.

And although I know I haven't as much sense in steadiness as a girl of 17 and a schoolteacher ought to have, I'm not so silly as that.

But I want to have everything as nice and dainty as possible.

Davy boy, don't leave those pea pods on the back stairs.

Someone might slip on them.

I'll have a light soup to begin with, you know.

I can make lovely cream of onion soup and then a couple of roast fowls.

I'll have the two white roosters.

I have real affection for those roosters, and they've been pets ever since the gray hen hatched out.

Just the two of them, little balls of yellow down.

But I know they would have to be sacrificed sometime, and surely there couldn't be a worthy occasion than this.

But, oh, Marilla, I cannot kill them, not even for Mrs.

Morgan's sake.

I'll have to ask John Henry Carter to come over and do it for me.

I'll do it, volunteer Davy, if Marilla hold him by the legs, because I guess it'd take both my hands to manage the axe.

It's awful jolly fun to see them hopping about after their heads are cut off.

Then I'll have the peas and beans and creamed potatoes and lettuce salad for vegetables, resumed Anne.

And for dessert?

Lemon pie with whipped cream and coffee and cheese and lady fingers.

I'll make the pies and lady fingers tomorrow and do up my white muslin dress.

And I must tell Diana tonight, for she'll want to do up hers.

Mrs.

Morgan's heroines are nearly always dressed in white muslin, and Diana and I have always resolved that this was what we would wear if we ever met her.

It will be such a delicate compliment, don't you think, Davey dear?

You mustn't poke pea pods into the cracks of the floor.

I must ask Mr.

And Mrs.

Allen and Miss Stacy to dinner, too, for they're all very anxious to meet Mrs.

Morgan.

It's so fortunate she's coming while Miss Stacy is here.

Davy, dear, don't sail the pea pods in the water bucket.

Go out to the trough.

Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday, and I think it will, for Uncle Abe said last night when he called at Mr.

Harrison said it was going to rain most of this week.

That's a good sign.

Agreed, Marilla.

Anne ran across to Orchard Slope that evening to tell the news to Diana, who was also very much excited over it, and they discussed the matter in the hammock swung under the big willow in the berry garden.

Oh, Anne, may not I help you cook the dinner?

Implored, Diana.

You know I can make splendid lettuce salad.

Indeed you may, said Anne unselfishly.

And I shall want you to help me decorate, too.

I mean to have the parlor simply a bower of blossoms, and the dining table is to be adorned with wild roses.

Oh, I do hope everything will go smoothly.

Mrs.

Morgan's heroines never get into scrapes or taken at a disadvantage.

And they are always so self possessed in such good housekeepers.

They seem to be born good housekeepers.

You remember that Gertrude in Edgewood days, kept house for her father when she was only eight years old.

When I was eight years old, I hardly knew how to do a thing except bring up children.

Mrs.

Morgan must be an authority on girls when she has written so much about them.

And I do want her to have a good opinion of us.

I imagined it all out a dozen different ways, what she'll look like and what she'll say, and what I'll say, and I'm so anxious about my nose.

There are seven freckles on it, as you can see.

They came at the Avis picnic when I went around in the sun without my hat.

I suppose it's ungrateful of me to worry over them when I should be thankful they're not spread all over my face as they once were.

But I do wish they hadn't come.

All Mrs.

Morgan's heroines have such perfect complexions.

I can't recall a freckled one among them.

Yours are not very noticeable comforted, Diana.

Try a little lemon juice on them tonight.

The next day, Anne made her pies, and Ladyfingers took up her muslin dress and swept and dusted every room in the house.

A quite unnecessary proceeding, for Green Gables was as usual in the apple pie order dear to Marilla's heart.

But Anne felt that a fleck of dust would be a desecration in the house that was to be honored by a visit from Charlotte E.

Morgan.

She even cleaned out the catch all closet under the stairs although there was not the remotest possibility of Mrs.

Morgan seeing its interior.

But I want to feel that it is in perfect order, even if she isn't to see it, Anne told Marilla.

You know, in her book Golden Keys, she makes her two heroines, Allison Louisa, take for their motto that verse of LongFellows.

In the elder days of art, builders wrought with greatest care each minute an unseen part, for the gods see everywhere.

And so they always kept their cellar stairs scrubbed and never forgot to sleep under the beds.

I should have a guilty conscience if I thought this closet was in disorder when Mrs.

Morgan was in the house.

Ever since we read Golden Keys last April, diana and I have taken that verse for our motto, too.

That night, John Henry Carter and Davy between them, contrived to execute the two white roosters, and Anne dressed them, the usually distasteful task glorified in her eyes by the destination of the plump birds.

I don't like picking fowls, she told Marilla, but isn't it fortunate we don't have to put our souls into what our hands may be doing?

I've been picking chickens with my hands, but in imagination I've been roaming the Milky Way.

I thought you'd scattered more feathers over the floor than usual, remarked Marilla.

Then Anne put Davy to bed and made him promise that he would behave perfectly the next day.

If I'm as good as good can be all day tomorrow, will you let me be just as bad as I like all the next day?

Asked Davy.

I couldn't do that, said Anne discreetly.

But I'll take you and Dora for a row in the flat right to the bottom of the pond, and we'll go ashore on the sandhills and have a picnic.

It's a bargain, said Davy.

I'll be good.

You bet.

I meant to go over to Mr.

Harrison's and fire peas from my new pop gun at Ginger, but another day will do as well.

I suspect it will be just like Sunday, but a picnic at the shore will make up for that.

Thank you for joining Bite at a Time Books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

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You can catch us on all the social medias at Bite at a Time Books again.

My name is Brie Carlyle, and I hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite of Anne of Avenlee.

High Line One.