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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
12
But
nettles
are
not
to
be
tolerated.
They
settled
the
question
on
which
I
had
been
turning
my
back
for
so
long,
and
one
fine
August
morning,
when
there
seemed
to
be
nothing
in
the
garden
but
nettles,
and
it
was
hard
to
believe
that
we
had
ever
been
doing
anything
but
carefully
cultivating
them
in
all
their
varieties,
I
walked
into
the
Man
of
Wrath's
den.
"My
dear
man,"
I
began,
in
the
small
caressing
voice
of
one
who
has
long
been
obstinate
and
is
in
the
act
of
giving
in,
"will
you
kindly
advertise
for
a
head
gardener
and
a
proper
number
of
assistants?
Nearly
all
the
bulbs
and
seeds
and
plants
I
have
squandered
my
money
and
my
hopes
on
have
turned
out
to
be
nettles,
and
I
don't
like
them.
I
have
had
a
wretched
summer,
and
never
want
to
see
a
meek
gardener
again."
"My
dear
Elizabeth,"
he
replied,
"I
regret
that
you
did
not
take
my
advice
sooner.
How
often
have
I
pointed
out
the
folly
of
engaging
one
incapable
person
after
the
other?
The
vegetables,
when
we
get
any,
are
uneatable,
and
there
is
never
any
fruit.
I
do
not
in
the
least
doubt
your
good
intentions,
but
you
are
wanting
in
judgment.
When
will
you
learn
to
rely
on
my
experience?"
I
hung
my
head;
for
was
he
not
in
the
pleasant
position
of
being
able
to
say,
"I
told
you
so"?--which
indeed
he
has
been
saying
for
the
last
two
years.
"I
don't
like
relying,"
I
murmured,
"and
have
rather
a
prejudice
against
somebody
else's
experience.
Please
will
you
send
the
advertisement
to-day?"
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