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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
112
I
asked
the
June
baby,
who
had
several
times
noticed
with
indignation
the
culpable
indifference
of
this
boy
in
regard
to
corners,
whether
she
did
not
think
that
would
be
a
good
way
of
disposing
of
him.
She
is
a
great
disciplinarian,
and
was
loud
in
her
praise
of
the
plan;
but
the
other
two
demurred.
"He
might
go
dead
in
there,"
said
the
May
baby,
apprehensively.
"And
he
is
such
a
naughty
boy,"
said
April,
who
had
watched
his
reckless
conduct
with
special
disgust,
"that
if
he
once
went
dead
he'd
go
straight
to
the
Holle
and
stay
all
the
time
with
the
diable."
That
was
the
first
French
word
I
have
heard
them
say:
strange
and
sulphureous
first-fruits
of
Seraphine's
teaching!
We
were
going
round
the
garden
in
a
procession,
I
with
a
big
pair
of
scissors,
and
the
Three
with
baskets,
into
one
of
which
I
put
fresh
flowers,
and
into
the
others
flowers
that
were
beginning
to
seed,
dead
flowers,
and
seed-pods.
The
garden
was
quivering
in
heat
and
light;
rain
in
the
morning
had
brought
out
all
the
snails
and
all
the
sweetness,
and
we
were
very
happy,
as
we
always
are,
I
when
I
am
knee-deep
in
flowers,
and
the
babies
when
they
can
find
new
sorts
of
snails
to
add
to
their
collections.
These
collections
are
carried
about
in
cardboard
boxes
all
day,
and
at
night
each
baby
has
hers
on
the
chair
beside
her
bed.
Sometimes
the
snails
get
out
and
crawl
over
the
beds,
but
the
babies
do
not
mind.
Once
when
April
woke
in
the
morning
she
was
overjoyed
by
finding
a
friendly
little
one
on
her
cheek.
Clearly
babies
of
iron
nerves
and
pellucid
consciences.
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