One day I was very stern. I said to my head mason, "I have ordered that
thing removed half a dozen times. Be so good as to have those posts
taken down before I come out again."
He touched his cap, and said, "Very well, madame."
It happened that the next time I came out the weather had become
spring-like.
The posts were down. The tangle that had grown over them was trailing
on the ground--but it had begun to put out leaves. I looked at it--and
for the first time it occurred to me to say, "What is that?"
The mason looked at me a moment, and replied, "That, madame! That is a
'creamson ramblaire'--the oldest one in the commune."
Poor fellow, it had never occurred to him that I did not know.
Seven feet to the north of the climbing rose bush was a wide hedge of
tall lilac bushes. So I threw up an arbor between them, and the crimson
rambler now mounts eight feet in the air. It is a glory of color
to-day, and my pride. But didn't I come near to losing it?
The long evenings are wonderful. I sit out until nine, and can read
until almost the last minute. I never light a lamp until I go up to
bed. That is my day.
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