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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
111
Sometimes
when
I
am
in
a
critical
mood
and
need
all
my
faith
to
keep
me
patient,
I
shake
my
head
at
the
unshornness
of
the
garden
as
gravely
as
the
missionary
shook
his
head
at
me.
The
bushes
stretch
across
the
paths,
and,
catching
at
me
as
I
go
by,
remind
me
that
they
have
not
been
pruned;
the
teeming
plant
life
rejoices
on
the
lawns
free
from
all
interference
from
men
and
hoes;
the
pinks
are
closely
nibbled
off
at
the
beginning
of
each
summer
by
selfish
hares
intent
on
their
own
gratification;
most
of
the
beds
bear
the
marks
of
nocturnal
foxes;
and
the
squirrels
spend
their
days
wantonly
biting
off
and
flinging
down
the
tender
young
shoots
of
the
firs.
Then
there
is
the
boy
who
drives
the
donkey
and
water-cart
round
the
garden,
and
who
has
an
altogether
reprehensible
habit
of
whisking
round
corners
and
slicing
off
bits
of
the
lawn
as
he
whisks.
"But
you
can't
alter
these
things,
my
good
soul,"
I
say
to
myself.
"If
you
want
to
get
rid
of
the
hares
and
foxes,
you
must
consent
to
have
wire-netting,
which
is
odious,
right
round
your
garden.
And
you
are
always
saying
you
like
weeds,
so
why
grumble
at
your
lawns?
And
it
doesn't
hurt
you
much
if
the
squirrels
do
break
bits
off
your
firs--the
firs
must
have
had
that
happening
to
them
years
and
years
before
you
were
born,
yet
they
still
flourish.
As
for
boys,
they
certainly
are
revolting
creatures.
Can't
you
catch
this
one
when
he
isn't
looking
and
pop
him
in
his
own
water-barrel
and
put
the
lid
on?"
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