Sep 24, 2026 · 7 hr 55 min · 20 segments
"Blue Castle" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a captivating tale that explores themes of love, freedom, and self-discovery. The story follows a young woman who finds herself at a crossroads, yearning for a…
Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she thought but didn't like it so well when other people said what they thought to her.
Valancy never said what she thought.
Cousin Georgiana, named after her great-great-grandmother, who had been named after George IV, would recount dolorously the names of all relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic, and wonder, "Which of us will be the first to go next?" Oppressively competent Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy because Valancy would be the only one she could find to put up with it.
For the same reason, Cousin Gladys really First Cousin Gladys, once removed, according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated relationship, a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis.
There would be none of all this today.
And there would be no packing up of teaspoons.
The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin Stickles.
And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt Wellington’s wedding set had been lost.
Valancy never heard the last of that silver teaspoon.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she blessed the rain that had saved her from it.
There would be no picnic this year.
If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day itself, she would have no celebration at all.
Thank whatever gods there were for that! Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that if the rain held up in the afternoon she would go up to the library and get another of John Foster’s books.
Valancy was never allowed to read novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels.
They were nature books, so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling all about the woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.
So Valancy was allowed to read them under protest, for it was only too evident that she enjoyed them too much.
It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion; but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous.
Valancy did not know whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing for her.
They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.
It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been in the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had been a well-known writer for several years.
“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.
“Nobody knows.
From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more information can be had.
Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she thought but didn't like it so well when other people said what they thought to her.
Valancy never said what she thought.
Cousin Georgiana, named after her great-great-grandmother, who had been named after George IV, would recount dolorously the names of all relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic, and wonder, "Which of us will be the first to go next?" Oppressively competent Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy because Valancy would be the only one she could find to put up with it.
For the same reason, Cousin Gladys really First Cousin Gladys, once removed, according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated relationship, a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis.
There would be none of all this today.
And there would be no packing up of teaspoons.
The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin Stickles.
And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt Wellington’s wedding set had been lost.
Valancy never heard the last of that silver teaspoon.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she blessed the rain that had saved her from it.
There would be no picnic this year.
If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day itself, she would have no celebration at all.
Thank whatever gods there were for that! Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that if the rain held up in the afternoon she would go up to the library and get another of John Foster’s books.
Valancy was never allowed to read novels, but John Foster’s books were not novels.
They were nature books, so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling all about the woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know.
So Valancy was allowed to read them under protest, for it was only too evident that she enjoyed them too much.
It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion; but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous.
Valancy did not know whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if she had come across John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a different thing for her.
They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into which she might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to her now.
It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been in the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had been a well-known writer for several years.
“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.
“Nobody knows.
From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more information can be had.
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