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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
16
"Dear
Sage,"
I
cried,
slipping
my
hand
through
his
arm,
"don't
be
so
wise!
I
promise
you
that
I
won't
be
dull,
and
I
won't
be
punished,
and
I
will
be
happy."
And
we
sauntered
slowly
back
to
the
house
in
great
contentment,
discussing
the
firmament
and
such
high
things,
as
though
we
knew
all
about
them.
May
15th.--There
is
a
dip
in
the
rye-fields
about
half
a
mile
from
my
garden
gate,
a
little
round
hollow
like
a
dimple,
with
water
and
reeds
at
the
bottom,
and
a
few
water-loving
trees
and
bushes
on
the
shelving
ground
around.
Here
I
have
been
nearly
every
morning
lately,
for
it
suits
the
mood
I
am
in,
and
I
like
the
narrow
footpath
to
it
through
the
rye,
and
I
like
its
solitary
dampness
in
a
place
where
everything
is
parched,
and
when
I
am
lying
on
the
grass
and
look
down
I
can
see
the
reeds
glistening
greenly
in
the
water,
and
when
I
look
up
I
can
see
the
rye-fringe
brushing
the
sky.
All
sorts
of
beasts
come
and
stare
at
me,
and
larks
sing
above
me,
and
creeping
things
crawl
over
me,
and
stir
in
the
long
grass
beside
me;
and
here
I
bring
my
book,
and
read
and
dream
away
the
profitable
morning
hours,
to
the
accompaniment
of
the
amorous
croakings
of
innumerable
frogs.
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