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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
6
"I
do
not
think
it
is
very
likely,"
said
the
Man
of
Wrath;
but
whether
he
meant
it
prettily,
or
whether
he
was
merely
thinking
of
the
improbability
of
his
ever
eating
too
much
of
the
local
savouries,
I
cannot
tell.
I
object,
however,
to
discussing
cooks
in
the
garden
on
a
starlight
night,
so
I
got
off
his
knee
and
proposed
that
we
should
stroll
round
a
little.
It
was
such
a
sweet
evening,
such
a
fitting
close
to
a
beautiful
May
Day,
and
the
flowers
shone
in
the
twilight
like
pale
stars,
and
the
air
was
full
of
fragrance,
and
I
envied
the
bats
fluttering
through
such
a
bath
of
scent,
with
the
real
stars
above
and
the
pansy
stars
beneath,
and
themselves
so
fashioned
that
even
if
they
wanted
to
they
could
not
make
a
noise
and
disturb
the
prevailing
peace.
A
great
deal
that
is
poetical
has
been
written
by
English
people
about
May
Day,
and
the
impression
left
on
the
foreign
mind
is
an
impression
of
posies,
and
garlands,
and
village
greens,
and
youths
and
maidens
much
be-ribboned,
and
lambs,
and
general
friskiness.
I
was
in
England
once
on
a
May
Day,
and
we
sat
over
the
fire
shivering
and
listening
blankly
to
the
north-
east
wind
tearing
down
the
street
and
the
rattling
of
the
hail
against
the
windows,
and
the
friends
with
whom
I
was
staying
said
it
was
very
often
so,
and
that
they
had
never
seen
any
lambs
and
ribbons.
We
Germans
attach
no
poetical
significance
to
it
at
all,
and
yet
we
well
might,
for
it
is
almost
invariably
beautiful;
and
as
for
garlands,
I
wonder
how
many
villages
full
of
young
people
could
have
been
provided
with
them
out
of
my
garden,
and
nothing
be
missed.
It
is
to-day
a
garden
of
wallflowers,
and
I
think
I
have
every
colour
and
sort
in
cultivation.
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