The house seemed astir with young life all
over. The only elderly thing in it was the cook, who had the reputation
of a dreadful temper; only, unfortunately, Rose made her laugh so much
that she never found time to be cross.
Katy felt quite an old, experienced person amid all this movement and
liveliness and cheer. It seemed to her that nobody in the world could
possibly be having such a good time as Rose; but Rose did not take the
same view of the situation.
"It's all very well now," she said, "while the warm weather lasts; but
in winter Longwood is simply grewsome. The wind never stops blowing day
nor night. It howls and it roars and it screams, till I feel as if every
nerve in my body were on the point of snapping in two. And the snow,
ugh! And the wind, ugh! And burglars! Every night of our lives they
come,--or I think they come,--and I lie awake and hear them sharpening
their tools and forcing the locks and murdering the cook and kidnapping
Baby, till I long to die, and have done with them forever! Oh, Nature is
the most unpleasant thing!"
"Burglars are not Nature," objected Katy.
"What are they, then? Art? High Art? Well, whatever they are, I do not
like them. Oh, if ever the happy day comes when Deniston consents to
move into town, I never wish to set my eyes on the country again as long
as I live, unless--well, yes, I should like to come out just once more
in the horse-cars and _kick_ that elm-tree by the fence! The number of
times that I have lain awake at night listening to its creaking!"
"You might kick it without waiting to have a house in town.
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