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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
55
JULY
July
1st.--I
think
that
after
roses
sweet-peas
are
my
favourite
flowers.
Nobody,
except
the
ultra-original,
denies
the
absolute
supremacy
of
the
rose.
She
is
safe
on
her
throne,
and
the
only
question
to
decide
is
which
are
the
flowers
that
one
loves
next
best.
This
I
have
been
a
long
while
deciding,
though
I
believe
I
knew
all
the
time
somewhere
deep
down
in
my
heart
that
they
were
sweet-peas;
and
every
summer
when
they
first
come
out,
and
every
time,
going
round
the
garden,
that
I
come
across
them,
I
murmur
involuntarily,
"Oh
yes,
you
are
the
sweetest,
you
dear,
dear
little
things."
And
what
a
victory
this
is,
to
be
ranked
next
the
rose
even
by
one
person
who
loves
her
garden.
Think
of
the
wonderful
beauty
triumphed
over--the
lilies,
the
irises,
the
carnations,
the
violets,
the
frail
and
delicate
poppies,
the
magnificent
larkspurs,
the
burning
nasturtiums,
the
fierce
marigolds,
the
smooth,
cool
pansies.
I
have
a
bed
at
this
moment
in
the
full
glory
of
all
these
things,
a
little
chosen
plot
of
fertile
land,
about
fifteen
yards
long
and
of
irregular
breadth,
shutting
in
at
its
broadest
the
east
end
of
the
walk
along
the
south
front
of
the
house,
and
sloping
away
at
the
back
down
to
a
moist,
low
bit
by
the
side
of
a
very
tiny
stream,
or
rather
thread
of
trickling
water,
where,
in
the
dampest
corner,
shining
in
the
sun,
but
with
their
feet
kept
cool
and
wet,
is
a
colony
of
Japanese
irises,
and
next
to
them
higher
on
the
slope
Madonna
lilies,
so
chaste
in
looks
and
so
voluptuous
in
smell,
and
then
a
group
of
hollyhocks
in
tenderest
shades
of
pink,
and
lemon,
and
white,
and
right
and
left
of
these
white
marguerites
and
evening
primroses
and
that
most
exquisite
of
poppies
called
Shirley,
and
a
little
on
one
side
a
group
of
metallic
blue
delphiniums
beside
a
towering
white
lupin,
and
in
and
out
and
everywhere
mignonette,
and
stocks,
and
pinks,
and
a
dozen
other
smaller
but
not
less
lovely
plants.
I
wish
I
were
a
poet,
that
I
might
properly
describe
the
beauty
of
this
bit
as
it
sparkles
this
afternoon
in
the
sunshine
after
rain;
but
of
all
the
charming,
delicate,
scented
groups
it
contains,
none
to
my
mind
is
so
lovely
as
the
group
of
sweet-peas
in
its
north-west
corner.
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