I love quotes.
And while I was thinking about how much I love them, and how I should start collecting them somehow, either here on my blog or just saving them as they come to my computer, one of my all-time favorite passages from a book came to my mind. It’s not really a topical quote, just a quote from a book, so it won’t make much sense unless you’ve read the book (and few people have, and so many more need to), but let me tell you, when you’ve read through the whole Anne of Green Gables series and get to these few paragraphs on one of the last pages of the final book, you can’t help but just start crying because they are so beautiful!
So, from book seven of the Anne of Green Gables series, Rilla of Ingleside:
One spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen came by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new station agent and a small black-and-yellow dog, who for four and a half years had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary. Thousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel after each train had gone his gait was very sober now–he never trotted but went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift.
One passenger stepped off the train–a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant’s uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him anxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was.
A black-and-yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy.
He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier’s khaki legs and slipped down and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds between barks and sobs.
The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the returned soldier was. Dog Monday’s long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had come home.
Tears, tears, tears. Every time. And that is why Lucy M. Montgomery is one of my heroes. When you can get someone to cry over five paragraphs no matter how many times they’ve read them, you’ve got the stuff.
If you have never read the whole series, DO IT. You can skip Anne of Windy Poplars. (It’s pretty boring and closely resembles the movie version of Anne of Ingleside (which in no way tells the real book story of Anne of Ingleside, FYI) without the little love story between Anne and the one guy. That’s completely made up for the movie, so don’t believe the lies.)