Under his wing was tucked a
sleepy, starry-eyed, little creature. The stork was
tired, and he looked wistfully about him. He knew he
was somewhere near his destination, but he could not
yet see it. The big, white light-house on the red
sandstone cliff had its good points; but no stork
possessed of any gumption would leave a new, velvet
baby there. An old gray house, surrounded by willows,
in a blossomy brook valley, looked more promising, but
did not seem quite the thing either. The staring
green abode further on was manifestly out of the
question. Then the stork brightened up. He had
caught sight of the very place--a little white house
nestled against a big, whispering firwood, with a
spiral of blue smoke winding up from its kitchen
chimney--a house which just looked as if it were meant
for babies. The stork gave a sigh of satisfaction, and
softly alighted on the ridge-pole.
Half an hour later Gilbert ran down the hall and tapped
on the spare-room door. A drowsy voice answered him
and in a moment Marilla's pale, scared face peeped out
from behind the door.
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