Her Mob Cap, Garden Apron, And Big Gloves; A Trowel In One
Hand, A Watering-Pot In The Other; Potting And Unpotting; So
Busy, Seemingly So Happy.
She loved to have me with her, and
let me do the watering.
What a pleasure that was! The
scores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushing
sound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of the
plants, to say nothing of one's own wet legs. 'Maman' did
not approve of my watering my own legs. But if the watering-
pot was too big for me how could I help it? By and by a
small one painted red within and green outside was discovered
in Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.
Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of the
family which occupied the chateau. The costume of the head
nurse with her high Normandy cap (would that I had a female
pen for details) invariably suggested to me that she would
make any English showman's fortune, if he could only exhibit
her stuffed. At the cottage they called her 'La Grosse
Normande.' Not knowing her by any other name, I always so
addressed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I think
she a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated by
comparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in a
tone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matter
of history, patent to all nurses, that the English race were
notoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the vicious
practice of allowing children to use their legs before the
gristle had become bone.
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