We started to walk to town today, but mercy! How it poured. I like winter to be with snow instead of rain.
Julia’s desirable uncle called again this afternoon―and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. There are advantages you see about rooming with Julia.
Our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited over a train in order a train in order to take tea in the study. And an awful lot of trouble we had getting permission. It’s hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfather but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins. They are next to impossible. Julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk’s certificate attached. (Don’t I know a lot of law?) And even then I doubt if we could have had our tea if the dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking Uncle Jervis is.
Anyway, we had it, with brown bread Swiss cheese sandwiches. He helped make them and then ate four. I told him that I had spent last summer at lock Willow, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the Semples, and the horses and cows and chickens. All the horses that he used to know are dead, except Grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit―and poor Grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture.
He asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry―and they do! He wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck’s hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture―and there is ! Amasai caught a big, fat, gray one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one Master Jervie caught when he was a little boy.
I called him “Master Jervie” to his face, nut he didn’t appear to be insulted. Julia says that she has never seen him so amiable: he’s usually pretty unapproachable. But Julia hasn’t a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal. They purr if you rub hem the right way and spit if you don’t. (That isn’t a very elegant metaphor. I mean it figuratively.)
We’re reading Marie Bashkirtseff’s [(1860-1884)瑪麗˙巴斯格謝夫，俄羅斯畫家，寫有一本日記。] journal. Isn’t it amazing? Listen to this: “Last night I was seized by[被……種情緒支配。] a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining room clock into the sea.”
It make me almost hope I’m not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about―and awfully destructive to the furniture.
Mercy! How it keeps pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel to night.