Today Is Declared An Unscheduled Holiday.

Ellen Had Said That Her Mother Was Afraid Of The Ocean, That It Was Too Cold And Too Big. The Sky Was, Too, Thought Annemarie. The Whole World Was: Too Cold, Too Big. And Too Cruel.

...now He Saw The Familiar Wide River Beside The Path Differently. He Saw All Of The Light And Color And History It Contained And Carried In Its Slow - Moving Water; And He Knew That There Was An Elsewhere From Which It Came, And An Elsewhere To Which It Was Going

His Mind Reeled. Now, Empowered To Ask Questions Of Utmost Rudeness-and Promised Answers-he Could, Conceivably (though It Was Almost Unimaginable), Ask Someone, Some Adult, His Father Perhaps: "do You Lie?" But He Would Have No Way Of Knowing If The Answer He Received Was True.

She Was The Only Doctor's Wife In Branford, Maine, Who Hung Her Wash On An Outdoor Clothesline Instead Of Putting It Through A Dryer, Because She Liked To Look Out The Window And See The Clothes Blowing In The Wind. She Had Been Especially Delighted, One Day, When One Sleeve Of The Top Of Her Husband's Pajamas, Prodded By The Stiff Breeze Off The Bay, Reached Over And Grabbed Her Nightgown Around The Waist.

The Community Of The Giver Had Achieved At Such Great Price. A Community Without Danger Or Pain. But Also, A Community Without Music, Color Or Art. And Books.