Never before did I
realize how we look at the outdoor world from inside the house, where
inanimate things force themselves into comparison. Now we are seeing
from outside and looking in at ourselves, so to speak, very much like
the robin, who has his third nest, lop-sided disaster having overtaken
the other two, in the old white lilac tree over my window.
Some of our doings, judged from the vantage point of the knoll, are very
inconsistent. The spot occupied by the drying yard is the most suitable
place for the new strawberry bed, and is in a direct line between the
fence gap, where my fragrant things are to be, and the Rose Garden.
Several of the walks that have been laid out according to the plan, when
seen from this height, curve around nothing and reach nowhere. We shall
presently satisfy their empty embraces with shrubs and locate various
other conspicuous objects at the terminals.
Also, the house is kept too much shut up; it looks inhospitable, seen
through the trees, with branches always tossing wide to the breeze and
sun. Even if a room is unoccupied by people, it is no reason why the sun
should be barred out, and at best we ourselves surely spend too much
time in our houses in the season when every tree is a roof.
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