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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
65
If
they
were
less
rosy
and
hungry,
or
if
I
were
less
prosaic,
I
might
have
gloomy
forebodings
that
such
keen
interest
in
things
and
beings
celestial
was
prophetic
of
a
short
life;
and
in
books,
we
know,
the
children
who
talk
much
on
these
topics
invariably
die,
after
having
given
their
reverential
parents
a
quantity
of
advice.
Fortunately
such
children
are
confined
to
books,
and
there
is
nothing
of
the
ministering
child--surely
a
very
uncomfortable
form
of
infant--about
my
babies.
Indeed,
I
notice
that
in
their
conversations
together
on
such
matters
a
healthy
spirit
of
contradiction
prevails,
and
this
afternoon,
after
having
accepted
April's
definition
of
angels
with
apparent
reverence,
the
June
baby
electrified
the
other
two
(always
more
orthodox
and
yielding)
by
remarking
that
she
hoped
she
would
never
go
to
heaven.
I
pretended
to
be
deep
in
my
book
and
not
listening;
April
and
May
were
sitting
on
the
grass
sewing
("needling"
they
call
it)
fearful-looking
woolwork
things
for
Seraphine's
birthday,
and
June
was
leaning
idly
against
a
pine
trunk,
swinging
a
headless
doll
round
and
round
by
its
one
remaining
leg,
her
heels
well
dug
into
the
ground,
her
sun-bonnet
off,
and
all
the
yellow
tangles
of
her
hair
falling
across
her
sunburnt,
grimy
little
face.
"No,"
she
repeated
firmly,
with
her
eyes
fixed
on
her
sisters'
startled
faces,
"I
don't
want
to.
There's
nothing
there
for
babies
to
play
with."
"Nothing
to
play
with?"
exclaimed
the
other
two
in
a
breath--and
throwing
down
their
needle-work
they
made
a
simultaneous
rush
for
me.
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