On Nov. 18, 1907, she recorded in her journal:

I had a walk through Lover’s Lane at dark tonight—or just as the dark was coming down.  I was never there so late before and while I enjoyed it I was really a little bit afraid, with a not unpleasant fear. The whole character of the lane seemed changed.  It was mysterious, sibilant, remote, eerie.  The trees, my old well-known friends, were strange and aloof.  The sounds I heard were not the cheery, companionable chorus of daytime—they were creeping and whispering and weird, as if the life of the woods had suddenly developed something almost hostile—at least alien and unacquainted and furtive.  I could have fancied that I heard stealthy footsteps all around me and I felt the old, primitive unreasoning fear that was known to the childhood of the race—the awe of the dark and the shadowy, the shrinking from some unseen danger lurking in the gloom.  My twentieth-century reason quelled it into a rather piquant watchfulness—but it would not have taken much to deliver me over to a blind panic in which I would have turned and fled shamelessly.  As it was, when I left the lane I walked more quickly than my wont and felt as if I had escaped from some fascinating but not altogether hallowed locality—a place still given over to paganism and the revels of fauns and satyrs.  None of the wild places are ever wholly Christianized in the darkness, however much so they may seem by daylight.  There is always a lurking life in them that dare not show itself to the sun but regains its own with the night.

To read more of Montgomery’s reflections, take a look at The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, Volume I: 1889-1910.