Sweethearts at Home. S. R. Crockett
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.
MY POEM.
Made up when I was (about) Four.
"I to the hills will lift mine eyes—
The purple hills of Paradise."
That's all! Now laugh! And if you do, I shan't ever love you again. Father smiles and says that very likely I did put them together, but that the last line is in a book of poems by a man named Trowbridge.
Well, what if it is? Can't I think it and Mr. Trowbridge too? I never saw his old book. Why, I could not read then, and he couldn't know what a little girl was thinking, sitting down by Esk-waterside and watching the purple hills—till I was told to come in and haste-me-fast, because the dew was falling.
But of course I don't tell this to everybody. They would call it sentiment. But I pity the little lonely girl who doesn't have "thinks" like that all to herself, which she would die sooner than tell to anybody except to her Dear Diary.
After the boys got bigger and could romp, I didn't have nearly so many thinks—not time enough, I suppose. Boys need a heap of watching. At first they have no soul—only a mouth to be silly with, teeth to eat with, and a Little Imp inside each to make them pesterful and like boys.
Well, little by little, I made a collection of things that were of my color—all in my head, of course.
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