The race that knows Joseph is the salt of the airth, I reckon." The moon had just risen when Anne and Gilbert went to the door with their guests.

Four Winds Harbor was beginning to be a thing of dream and glamour and enchantment--a spellbound haven where no tempest might ever ravin.

The Lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver.
"Always liked Lombardies," said Captain Jim, waving a long arm at them.
"They're the trees of princesses.

They're out of fashion now.

Folks complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking.