gloomier poetry of Robert Herrick (“And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying”) next to one, at least not if you insist on swinging your parasol rhythmically about by way of accompaniment to your lyrical effusions.
This is what Prudence did, however. The energetic, slashing movements of her arm disturbed not one but several bees, which expressed their disapproval either of her literary tastes or, more likely, her style of elocution, by stinging her all at once.
She shrieked, and in her haste to escape their attentions, tripped and fell into the bush. This annoyed the other bees and, while some chose a dignified retreat to other, less agitated gorse bushes, a goodly number mounted an offensive against poor Prudence, who was thrashing about, unable to flee, since her clothing was caught up on the thorns.
I hurried to Prudence’s side, commanding Mr. Fredericks, who was standing and gawking at the spectacle, to assist me at once. The sting of a bee, while painful, is usually not a serious matter. However, many stings all sustained at once might be of more concern, and I have heard that some unfortunate persons have an acute sensitivity to bee venom.
I will say for Mr. Fredericks that, once I demanded his assistance in no uncertain terms, he proved quick and efficient. He grasped Prudence without ceremony by the elbows and lifted. With several sharp twists that reminded me of the removal of a wine cork, he disengaged her skirt and pelisse from the green spines of the gorse bush, carried her some ten or fifteen feet away, and set her down.
Whereupon she fainted.
The rest of our party had been alerted to the mishap and converged upon the stricken lady with offers of hartshorn and wine to revive her. These had their effect, and soon she was propped up against my knee being fanned by her sister. The stings were beginning to swell, but Jock was able to supply some vinegar that had been meant as a dressing for the salad, and this soothed them somewhat.
After a passage of some minutes it was clear that Prudence was not one of those with an acute sensitivity to bee venom, and we all became more composed and started having thoughts about food. With the Baron’s assistance, Prudence even managed to rise from the ground and take a few tottering steps towards the vicinity where our meal had been laid out.
“ Where is Alexander?”
It was my mother’s voice, and I looked about in sudden terror.
No small boy was anywhere in sight. Neither, I realized, was a small dog within view.
“Alexander! Fido! Where are you?” I cried.
My mother, whose face had turned snow-white, lifted her skirts and ran, calling out for my brother, with the Marquis close behind her. Prudence found herself abandoned, left to dab vinegar on her injuries in fretful solitude as the others scattered, searching. Some hastened to the other side of the hill, some to a copse of trees nearby, some went hunting amongst the standing stones, which chose that moment to resume their eerie, mournful song.
I stood still a moment, thinking. When I lifted my eyes they met Mr. Fredericks’s.
“The tin mine,” we said in unison.
Mr. Fredericks, unencumbered by skirts and delicate shoes, was the faster of the two of us, and I motioned him ahead. “Go. Go! Make haste!”
Oh, the sight that greeted us at the old tin mine! A pathetic pile of discarded clothing several feet off from the brink and a faint, a very, very faint disturbance in the waters.
Heedful of my warning about the fragility of the edges, Mr. Fredericks knelt down and crawled towards the pool on his hands and knees. Groping about with one hand while supporting himself with the other he succeeded in catching hold of something in the water. Yet no sooner had he grasped it than the ground beneath him crumbled and he too pitched into the mine headfirst.
After an agonizing moment, three heads—two human and one canine—appeared above the surface, gasped for air and then
This is what Prudence did, however. The energetic, slashing movements of her arm disturbed not one but several bees, which expressed their disapproval either of her literary tastes or, more likely, her style of elocution, by stinging her all at once.
She shrieked, and in her haste to escape their attentions, tripped and fell into the bush. This annoyed the other bees and, while some chose a dignified retreat to other, less agitated gorse bushes, a goodly number mounted an offensive against poor Prudence, who was thrashing about, unable to flee, since her clothing was caught up on the thorns.
I hurried to Prudence’s side, commanding Mr. Fredericks, who was standing and gawking at the spectacle, to assist me at once. The sting of a bee, while painful, is usually not a serious matter. However, many stings all sustained at once might be of more concern, and I have heard that some unfortunate persons have an acute sensitivity to bee venom.
I will say for Mr. Fredericks that, once I demanded his assistance in no uncertain terms, he proved quick and efficient. He grasped Prudence without ceremony by the elbows and lifted. With several sharp twists that reminded me of the removal of a wine cork, he disengaged her skirt and pelisse from the green spines of the gorse bush, carried her some ten or fifteen feet away, and set her down.
Whereupon she fainted.
The rest of our party had been alerted to the mishap and converged upon the stricken lady with offers of hartshorn and wine to revive her. These had their effect, and soon she was propped up against my knee being fanned by her sister. The stings were beginning to swell, but Jock was able to supply some vinegar that had been meant as a dressing for the salad, and this soothed them somewhat.
After a passage of some minutes it was clear that Prudence was not one of those with an acute sensitivity to bee venom, and we all became more composed and started having thoughts about food. With the Baron’s assistance, Prudence even managed to rise from the ground and take a few tottering steps towards the vicinity where our meal had been laid out.
“ Where is Alexander?”
It was my mother’s voice, and I looked about in sudden terror.
No small boy was anywhere in sight. Neither, I realized, was a small dog within view.
“Alexander! Fido! Where are you?” I cried.
My mother, whose face had turned snow-white, lifted her skirts and ran, calling out for my brother, with the Marquis close behind her. Prudence found herself abandoned, left to dab vinegar on her injuries in fretful solitude as the others scattered, searching. Some hastened to the other side of the hill, some to a copse of trees nearby, some went hunting amongst the standing stones, which chose that moment to resume their eerie, mournful song.
I stood still a moment, thinking. When I lifted my eyes they met Mr. Fredericks’s.
“The tin mine,” we said in unison.
Mr. Fredericks, unencumbered by skirts and delicate shoes, was the faster of the two of us, and I motioned him ahead. “Go. Go! Make haste!”
Oh, the sight that greeted us at the old tin mine! A pathetic pile of discarded clothing several feet off from the brink and a faint, a very, very faint disturbance in the waters.
Heedful of my warning about the fragility of the edges, Mr. Fredericks knelt down and crawled towards the pool on his hands and knees. Groping about with one hand while supporting himself with the other he succeeded in catching hold of something in the water. Yet no sooner had he grasped it than the ground beneath him crumbled and he too pitched into the mine headfirst.
After an agonizing moment, three heads—two human and one canine—appeared above the surface, gasped for air and then
Similar Books
