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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
115
"I'll
tell
you
what
I'll
do,
babies,"
I
said,
anxious
to
restore
complete
serenity
on
such
a
lovely
day,
and
feeling
slightly
ashamed
of
my
uncalled-for
zeal--indeed,
April
was
right,
and
proper
mothers
leave
lessons
and
torments
to
somebody
else,
and
devote
all
their
energies
to
petting--"I'll
give
a
ball
after
tea."
"Yes!"
shouted
three
exultant
voices,
"and
invite
all
the
babies!"
"So
now
you
must
arrange
what
you
are
going
to
wear.
I
suppose
you'd
like
the
same
supper
as
usual?
Run
away
to
Seraphine
and
tell
her
to
get
you
ready."
They
seized
their
baskets
and
their
boxes
of
snails
and
rushed
off
into
the
bushes,
calling
for
Seraphine
with
nothing
but
rapture
in
their
voices,
and
French
and
the
diable
quite
forgotten.
These
balls
are
given
with
great
ceremony
two
or
three
times
a
year.
They
last
about
an
hour,
during
which
I
sit
at
the
piano
in
the
library
playing
cheerful
tunes,
and
the
babies
dance
passionately
round
the
pillar.
They
refuse
to
waltz
together,
which
is
perhaps
a
good
thing,
for
if
they
did
there
would
always
be
one
left
over
to
be
a
wallflower
and
gnash
her
teeth;
and
when
they
want
to
dance
squares
they
are
forced
by
the
stubbornness
of
numbers
to
dance
triangles.
At
the
appointed
hour
they
knock
at
the
door,
and
come
in
attired
in
the
garments
they
have
selected
as
appropriate
(at
this
last
ball
the
April
baby
wore
my
shooting
coat,
the
May
baby
had
a
muff,
and
the
June
baby
carried
Seraphine's
umbrella),
and,
curtseying
to
me,
each
one
makes
some
remark
she
thinks
suitable
to
the
occasion.
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