“Où est-ce?”
“Oh, a big green one. Look under that rock, I bet he’s—”
“Zut! Il s’est échappé—sale bête!!”
“Not on your tintype—not while Sister Marje has a say-so—I’ve got my finger in the small of his back; you hold him while I get the net.”
“Oh, mais, en void un plus grand! Où vastu, mon vieux? Oh, Oh, il me tient! Oh, là, là!—Il manque de charme, celui-ci—enfin ça est”—etc., etc.
For two hours we splashed around, chasing and pouncing and yelling, and got in all sixteen crabs—some whoppers. Then we took a luscious swim in the clear sunlit water.
This mixture of dolce far niente and a lark is going to put us in fine trim for the fall work. Don’t forget, Father, you’re going to get some confiding editor or journalist to send me to the devastated towns?
Love,
Esther.