_June again. Aged ten. Afternoon of the Day when the first Strawberry
was Half-ripe._
It will never be whole-ripe, owing to an accident which happened to it.
However, none of the Grown-ups knew except Sandy the gardener, and he
only tells us not to. But we don't really mind.
Which makes me wonder sometimes if Grown-ups have a world of their own,
same as us Children. I don't think so. If they had, they wouldn't always
be writing and reading, or paying calls and sitting on chairs, and
looking Nim-Pim-Pimmany! They can't really have good times all by
themselves, same as us. What do you think? I suppose it is
account-books, and postmen, and having to understand the sermon that
makes them look like that.
But at any rate they have not an idea that children really are
thinking--nor how much they know. Perhaps that is just as well. For, as
they say about the monkeys, if they only knew how we talk among
ourselves, they might set us to work. At least they would not be so
ready to believe in us when next they saw us with our "behaving faces"
on.
Now I will tell you about our house. It is a nice one, and I have a
bedroom with greeny paper, and out of the window you can see the
Pentland hills and the flagstaff in front of them. The flagstaff is on
the drying green, but the hills are a good deal farther away. Maid
Margaret and I live there--that is, at nights, and I tell her stories if
she will lie on her right side and not kick.
Sometimes we have fights, but not such ones as the boys have up above.
Often we can hear them stamping and thumping, and then coming down with
a huge "bang" that you would think would shake down the house. That is
when they clutch and wrestle. Outside there is just the Low Garden and
the High Garden, a road between big old yew-trees, and then you are at
the library, which is made of wood. And mostly there is a ticking sound
inside, which is the typewriter--_tick-a-tack--tick-a-tack_! Then a
pause, a few growls, and then the noise of a book being pulled out,
rustling leaves, more stamps, more growls, and again--_tick-a-tack_!
It goes on like that most of the time, except when the Animal inside
must be fed, or on fine afternoons, when he comes out to play.
_Then_ we have quite lovely times in the woods and hunting for things,
or picnicking. And it is nice to see the white tablecloth, which
Somebody has arranged on the green grass or under the shade, all covered
with nice things for you to eat.
Then all about there are woods--oh! miles and miles of them. There is
the Low Park, where there are lots of apples--rather crabby, but not
much the worse for that when you are really hungry.
The Low Park is pretty big, and has a stream running through it, quite
slowly and steadily. Then down below is the river-bed, all rocks and
pools. Because the water is drawn off for the mills below. We can play
there in the summer-time, and keep fish as safe as in an aquarium.
Of course there are nice places higher up--where Esk goes along lipping
over the pebbles, tugging at the overhanging branches of trees, or
opening out to make a mirror for the purple heather on the slopes above.
But of all these you shall hear before I have done. Oh, yes, I mean that
you shall.
And in the evening all is lovely dark purple except the hills, which are
light purple and green in patches, the shape of cloud-shadows.
I wonder if ever you got to love words, colors, and things till they
grew to be part of yourself? What do I mean? Well, I will try and
explain.
When I was little, the word "purple" somehow nearly made me cry. Oh,
no--I did not like dresses that color, nor even ribbons--much. Only just
the word. Sometimes funnily, as in the line--
"A pleasant purple Porpoise,
From the Waters of Chili."
Sometimes seriously, as in two lines which have always brought the tears
to my eyes--I do not know why. I think I must have put them together
myself when I was thinking in sermon-time (which is a very good time to
think in). Because the first is the line of a Scottish psalm, and the
rest is--I know not what--some jingle that ran in my head, I suppose.
But they made me cry--they do still, I confess, and it is the color-word
that does it!--that, and the feeling that it is years and years ago
since first I began to say them over to myself. It seems as if there
would never again be such hues on the mountains, never such richness on
the heather, never sunsets so arrogant (yes, I got the word that time)
as those when I was little.
But what, you ask, are the lines? Well, you won't think anything of
them. I _know_ you will laugh.
They are just--but oh! I am ashamed to put them down to be printed. For
they are just altogether mine--all little girls who have been lonely
little girls will know what I mean. Boys are pigs and will laugh--except
Hugh John.
However, I can't put off any longer, can I? Oh, yes, I could, but--it is
better to be over and done with it.