Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been
a very mild December and people had looked forward to a green
Christmas; but just enough snow fell softly in the night to
transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable
window with delighted eyes. The firs in the Haunted Wood were
all feathery and wonderful; the birches and wild cherry trees
were outlined in pearl; the plowed fields were stretches of snowy
dimples; and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious.
Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice reechoed through Green Gables.
"Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew!
Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white.
Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it?
I don't like green Christmases. They're not green--
they're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes
people call them green? Why--why--Matthew, is that for me?
Oh, Matthew!"
Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper
swathings and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla,
who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but
nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with
a rather interested air.
Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh,
how pretty it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss
of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist
elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little
ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the
crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful
puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon.
"That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly.
"Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now."
For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears.
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