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Updated: June 4, 2025
"If it was our own baby," I said, "or even the child of one of us, by a former marriage, it would be a different thing; but to give yourself up so entirely to Pomona's baby, seems, to me, unreasonable. Indeed, I never heard of any case exactly like it. It is reversing all the usages of society for the mistress to take care of the servant's baby."
Tall, slender poplars are nodding in the morning breeze, the less lofty almond and pomegranate, sheltered from the breezes by the surrounding building, rustle never a leaf, but seem to be offering Pomona's choice products of nuts and rosy pomegranates, with modest mien and silence; whilst beds of rare exotics, peculiar to this sunny clime, imparts to the atmosphere of the cool shaded garden, a pleasing sense of being perfumed.
"If you don't want to go into fiction again you ought not to be made to do it." "I would not do such a wicked thing as to put anybody in fiction who did not want to go there," gravely replied the Husband of Euphemia. At these words the load that was on Pomona's mind dropped from it entirely.
Thomson, in the Seasons, alludes to Phillips: "Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse, With British freedom, sing the British song." It will be seen that Thomson refers to the poet's reference to Milton, but it is not true that Phillips is only the second writer of English blank verse.
The poet is describing the Island of Love: "... here each gift Pomona's hand bestows In cultured garden, free uncultured flows, The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair Than e'er was fostered by the hand of care. The cherry here in shining crimson glows, And stained with lovers' blood, in pendent rows, The mulberries o'erload the bending boughs."
Euphemia began to take a great deal of comfort in her girl. Every evening she had some new instance to relate of Pomona's inventive abilities and aptness in adapting herself to the peculiarities of our method of housekeeping. "Only to think!" said she, one afternoon, "Pomona has just done another VERY smart thing.
We rushed through the court and up the stairs past our apartments to Pomona's room; and there in the open doorway stood Jonas, his coat off, his sandy hair in wild confusion, his face radiant, and in his hands Little Kensington in her nightgown. "I knew by the row on the stairs you'd brought her home," he exclaimed, as Little Kensington was snatched from him and Corinne was put into his arms.
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