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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
19
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we
go
together
through
the
rye,
he
carefully
tucked
under
one
arm,
while
with
the
other
I
brandish
a
bunch
of
grass
to
keep
off
the
flies
that
appear
directly
we
emerge
into
the
sunshine.
"Oh,
my
dear
Thoreau,"
I
murmur
sometimes,
overcome
by
the
fierce
heat
of
the
little
path
at
noonday
and
the
persistence
of
the
flies,
"did
you
have
flies
at
Walden
to
exasperate
you?
And
what
became
of
your
philosophy
then?"
But
he
never
notices
my
plaints,
and
I
know
that
inside
his
covers
he
is
discoursing
away
like
anything
on
the
folly
of
allowing
oneself
to
be
overwhelmed
in
that
terrible
rapid
and
whirlpool
called
a
dinner,
which
is
situated
in
the
meridian
shallows,
and
of
the
necessity,
if
one
would
keep
happy,
of
sailing
by
it
looking
another
way,
tied
to
the
mast
like
Ulysses.
But
he
gets
grimly
carried
back
for
all
that,
and
is
taken
into
the
house
and
put
on
his
shelf
and
left
there,
because
I
still
happen
to
have
a
body
attached
to
my
spirit,
which,
if
not
fed
at
the
ordinary
time,
becomes
a
nuisance.
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