A storm of laughter struck me from within when I came to my Willow Cottage. I examined it from the window. Half a dozen young ladies were biting pie. (Pie! Rustic pastry I ever so hate!)
“Picnic!” I murmured.
My blood gushed up. I was on the verge of denouncing their irruption. The cottage belongs to any one, I said in my afterthought, as it does to me.
I slipped away.
I found myself in the plum orchard with a hoe.
I began to root the weeds. I waited silently for their departure.
25th—The spring hills were coquetting like a tea-house maiden, singing:
“The air is lovely like wine;
Come, Lord! Come, Lord!”
The curtain for the spring comedy has not yet risen.