As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? — Jane Austen, Emma

May 24, 2012

A Garden Plot






Early this morning as I was Believing the Lie, I stepped out of The House I Loved into the garden and bent down to touch The Children.

As dawn broke and I took in my surroundings I noticed several things: Wicked Autumn was struggling due to Footsteps in the Dark; Catherine the Great had been dug up Below Stairs under Dorchester Terrace; but with help from An Unexpected Guest and knowledge gleaned from The Forgotten Affairs of Youth, I was able to bury {her} with The Body in the Boudoir.

Later, A Woman of Consequence popped in to take a cutting or two; “I Am Half-Sick of Shadows,” she told me, but she pointed out American Bloomsbury.

Taking a well-earned rest from the weeding and chatting over the wall with The Technologists from next door, I mentioned That Woman and remarked on Gilded Lives, but then when Death Wore a Diadem, we said Beastly Things and I went back to do a little light pruning.

My garden was once a Country Plot, but tending it is a joy and part of A Rather Lovely Inheritance.
.  .  .  .  .  .

{I don't have a garden, but I am hoping to spend most of this long weekend reading, so this books and gardens meme, from Karen via Claire, was the perfect way to look forward to that.}

No comments: