And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely
and completely as in the mud? A state of existence, without mud at the
bottom, must be a life without repose.
I was in the mud one day, head downwards, when human voices came to me
through the water. It was summer, and the pond was low at the time.
"Oh, Francis! Francis! The Water-Soldier[D] is in flower."
"Hooray! Dig him up for the aquarium! Grandfather says it's very
rare--doesn't he?"
"He says it's not at all common; and there's only one, Francis. It
would be a pity if we didn't get it up by the roots, and it died."
"Nonsense, Molly. I'll get it up. But let's get the beasts first. You
get the pickle-jar ready, whilst I fix the stick on to the colander."
"Does cook know you've taken it, Francis?"
"By this time she does, I should think. Look here, Molly--I wish you
would try and get this stick right. It wants driving through the
handles. I'm just going to have a look at the Water-Soldier."
"You always give me the work to do," Molly complained; and as she spoke,
I climbed up an old stake that was firmly planted in the mud, and seated
myself on the top, which stood out of the water, and looked at her.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163