United States or Luxembourg ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
I do not always reply to Georgiana, though I always could if I chose. Whenever I remain silent about anything she changes the subject. "Did you know that Sylvia once wrote a poem on a vegetable?" "I did not." "You don't speak as though you cared." "You must know how deeply interested I am." "Then why don't you ask to see the poem?" "Was it on butterbeans?" "The idea! Sylvia has better taste."
In the afternoon I was cutting stakes at the wood-pile for my butterbeans, and a bright idea struck me. During my engagement to Georgiana I cannot always be darting in and out of Mrs. Cobb's front door like a swallow through a barn. Neither can I talk freely to Georgiana with her up at the window and me down on the ground when I wish to breathe into her ear the things that I must utter or die.
I was happily at work this morning among my butterbeans a vegetable of solid merit and of a far greater suitableness to my palate than such bovine watery growths as the squash and the beet. Georgiana came to her garden window and stood watching me. "You work those butterbeans as though you loved them," she said, scornfully. "I do love them. I love all vines."
Word Of The Day