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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
47
The
thermometer
goes
down
to
twenty
degrees
of
frost
Reaumur,
and
down
you
go
with
it
to
the
realities,
to
that
elementary
state
where
everything
is
big--health
and
sickness,
delight
and
misery,
ecstasy
and
despair.
It
makes
you
remember
your
poorer
neighbours,
and
sends
you
into
their
homes
to
see
that
they
too
are
fitted
out
with
the
armour
of
warmth
and
food
necessary
in
the
long
fight;
and
in
your
own
home
it
draws
you
nearer
than
ever
to
each
other.
Out
of
doors
it
is
too
cold
to
walk,
so
you
run,
and
are
rewarded
by
the
conviction
that
you
cannot
be
more
than
fifteen;
or
you
get
into
your
furs,
and
dart
away
in
a
sleigh
over
the
snow,
and
are
sure
there
never
was
music
so
charming
as
that
of
its
bells;
or
you
put
on
your
skates,
and
are
off
to
the
lake
to
which
you
drove
so
often
on
June
nights,
when
it
lay
rosy
in
the
reflection
of
the
northern
glow,
and
all
alive
with
myriads
of
wild
duck
and
plovers,
and
which
is
now,
but
for
the
swish
of
your
skates,
so
silent,
and
but
for
your
warmth
and
jollity,
so
forlorn.
Nor
would
I
willingly
miss
the
early
darkness
and
the
pleasant
firelight
tea
and
the
long
evenings
among
my
books.
It
is
then
that
I
am
glad
I
do
not
live
in
a
cave,
as
I
confess
I
have
in
my
more
godlike
moments
wished
to
do;
it
is
then
that
I
feel
most
capable
of
attending
to
the
Man
of
Wrath's
exhortations
with
an
open
mind;
it
is
then
that
I
actually
like
to
hear
the
shrieks
of
the
wind,
and
then
that
I
give
my
heartiest
assent,
as
I
warm
my
feet
at
the
fire,
to
the
poet's
proposition
that
all
which
we
behold
is
full
of
blessings.
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