My HEAVENS! Those dower cast-iron urns of yours sure did start to smile when you got to work, didn’t they! Why, I don’t think John Keats himself would have the words to aptly describe their magnificence! Good show, my girl!
Incidentally, have you met my neighbor, Mr. Keats? Perhaps his wife Anne? Now that they’re in their golden years, they do enjoy a calm stroll most evenings, and often pass by your homestead! While I will confess to hearing Mr. Keats postulate that your acreage would produce a “better yield” if it were “plowed rather than pruned,” I still count him among your admirers.
“It’s all well and good to grow handsome flowers,” he said in that deep, booming voice of his, “but they’re no substitute for hearty potatoes or a paddock full of mutton when there’s a harsh winter coming on!”
Just between us, Anne secretly wanted to attend the Garden Club Luncheon ever so badly, but Mr. Keats explained to her that to impose would be “bad form indeed!”
“Besides!” he chuffed, “What’s she going to serve for brunch? TULIPS?!”
Oh, drat! I must be off, Barbara. My dear husband James is at work on his “Book of Play,” or whatever he calls it, and is talking loudly to himself in the study. Whenever he does this, it never ceases to wake the children, and Lord knows they need their sleep after watching our youngest, Timothy, expire of the Consumption just last night.
Be well, dear!
– Elizabeth Ash
Well, I am flattered that you could pull yourself away from your so recently deceased Timothy to comment on my urns. Tulips were not on the menu for the luncheon -although pansies were considered – so you and your dear friend, Anne, should have just popped by. We had champagne. Lots of champagne which would have made it all so much more endurable for you, I’m sure.
Your comment is awaiting moderation.