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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
10
I
sometimes
literally
ache
with
envy
as
I
watch
the
men
going
about
their
pleasant
work
in
the
sunshine,
turning
up
the
luscious
damp
earth,
raking,
weeding,
watering,
planting,
cutting
the
grass,
pruning
the
trees--not
a
thing
that
they
do
from
the
first
uncovering
of
the
roses
in
the
spring
to
the
November
bonfires
but
fills
my
soul
with
longing
to
be
up
and
doing
it
too.
A
great
many
things
will
have
to
happen,
however,
before
such
a
state
of
popular
large-mindedness
as
will
allow
of
my
digging
without
creating
a
sensation
is
reached,
so
I
have
plenty
of
time
for
further
grumblings;
only
I
do
very
much
wish
that
the
tongues
inhabiting
this
apparently
lonely
and
deserted
countryside
would
restrict
their
comments
to
the
sins,
if
any,
committed
by
the
indigenous
females
(since
sins
are
fair
game
for
comment)
and
leave
their
harmless
eccentricities
alone.
After
having
driven
through
vast
tracts
of
forest
and
heath
for
hours,
and
never
meeting
a
soul
or
seeing
a
house,
it
is
surprising
to
be
told
that
on
such
a
day
you
took
such
a
drive
and
were
at
such
a
spot;
yet
this
has
happened
to
me
more
than
once.
And
if
even
this
is
watched
and
noted,
with
what
lightning
rapidity
would
the
news
spread
that
I
had
been
seen
stalking
down
the
garden
path
with
a
hoe
over
my
shoulder
and
a
basket
in
my
hand,
and
weeding
written
large
on
every
feature!
Yet
I
should
love
to
weed.
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