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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
96
I
would
begin
in
April
with
the
king-cups,
and
leave
off
in
September
with
the
blackberries,
and
I
would
keep
one
eye
on
the
geese,
and
one
on
the
volume
of
Wordsworth
I
should
have
with
me,
and
I
would
be
present
in
this
way
at
the
procession
of
the
months,
the
first
three
all
white
and
yellow,
and
the
last
three
gorgeous
with
the
lupin
fields
and
the
blues
and
purples
and
crimsons
that
clothe
the
hedges
and
ditches
in
a
wonderful
variety
of
shades,
and
dye
the
grass
near
the
water
in
great
patches.
Then
in
October
I
would
shut
up
my
Wordsworth,
go
back
to
civilised
life,
and
probably
assist
at
the
eating
of
the
geese
one
after
the
other,
with
a
proper
thankfulness
for
the
amount
of
edification
I
had
from
first
to
last
extracted
from
them.
I
believe
in
England
goose
eating
is
held
to
be
of
doubtful
refinement,
and
is
left
to
one's
servants.
Here
roast
goose
stuffed
with
apples
is
a
dish
loved
quite
openly
and
simply
by
people
who
would
consider
that
the
number
of
their
quarterings
raises
them
above
any
suspicion
as
to
the
refinement
of
their
tastes,
however
many
geese
they
may
eat,
and
however
much
they
may
enjoy
them;
and
I
remember
one
lady,
whose
ancestors,
probably
all
having
loved
goose,
reached
back
up
to
a
quite
giddy
antiquity,
casting
a
gloom
over
a
dinner
table
by
removing
as
much
of
the
skin
or
crackling
of
the
goose
as
she
could
when
it
came
to
her,
remarking,
amidst
a
mournful
silence,
that
it
was
her
favourite
part.
No
doubt
it
was.
The
misfortune
was
that
it
happened
also
to
be
the
favourite
part
of
the
line
of
guests
who
came
after
her,
and
who
saw
themselves
forced
by
the
hard
laws
of
propriety
to
affect
an
indifferent
dignity
of
bearing
at
the
very
moment
when
their
one
feeling
was
a
fierce
desire
to
rise
up
and
defend
at
all
costs
their
right
to
a
share
of
skin.
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