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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
34
I
wish
they
would
speak
English
a
little
better.
The
pains
I
take
to
correct
them
and
weed
out
the
German
words
that
crop
up
in
every
sentence
are
really
untiring,
and
the
results
discouraging.
Indeed,
as
they
get
older
the
German
asserts
itself
more
and
more,
and
is
threatening
to
swallow
up
the
little
English
they
have
left
entirely.
I
talk
English
steadily
with
them,
but
everybody
else,
including
a
small
French
nurse
lately
imported,
nothing
but
German.
Somebody
told
me
the
thing
to
do
was
to
let
children
pick
up
languages
when
they
were
babies,
at
which
period
they
absorb
them
as
easily
as
food
and
drink,
and
are
quite
unaware
that
they
are
learning
anything
at
all;
whereupon
I
immediately
introduced
this
French
girl
into
the
family,
forgetting
how
little
English
they
have
absorbed,
and
the
result
has
been
that
they
pass
their
days
delightfully
in
teaching
her
German.
They
were
astonished
at
first
on
discovering
that
she
could
not
understand
a
word
they
said,
and
soon
set
about
altering
such
an
uncomfortable
state
of
things;
and
as
they
are
three
to
one
and
very
zealous,
and
she
is
a
meek
little
person
with
a
profile
like
a
teapot
with
a
twisted
black
handle
of
hair,
their
success
was
practically
certain
from
the
beginning,
and
she
is
getting
on
quite
nicely
with
her
German,
and
has
at
least
already
thoroughly
learned
all
the
mistakes.
She
wanders
in
the
garden
with
a
surprised
look
on
her
face
as
of
one
who
is
moving
about
in
worlds
not
realised;
and
the
three
cling
to
her
skirts
and
give
her
enthusiastic
lessons
all
day
long.
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