States. I am sorry, but it is the truth.

You ask me what I do with the "long days." My dear! they are short, and
yet I am out of bed a little after four every morning. To be sure I get
into bed again at half past eight, or, at latest, nine, every night. Of
course the weather is simply lovely. As soon as I have made sure that
my beloved panorama has not disappeared in the night I dress in great
haste. My morning toilette consists of a long black studio apron such
as the French children wear to school,--it takes the place of a
dress,--felt shoes inside my sabots, a big hat, and long
gardening-gloves. In that get-up I weed a little, rake up my paths,
examine my fruit trees, and, at intervals, lean on my rake in a Maud
Muller posture and gaze at the view. It is never the same two hours of
the day, and I never weary of looking at it.

My garden would make you chortle with glee. You will have to take it by
degrees, as I do. I have a sort of bowing acquaintance with it
myself--en masse, so to speak. I hardly know a thing in it by name. I
have wall fruit on the south side and an orchard of plum, pear, and
cherry trees on the north side. The east side is half lawn and half
disorderly flower beds. I am going to let the tangle in the orchard
grow at its own sweet will--that is, I am going to as far as Amelie
allows me. I never admire some trailing, flowering thing there that,
while I am admiring it, Amelie does not come out and pull it out of the
ground, declaring it une salete and sure to poison the whole place if
allowed to grow. Yet some of these same saletes are so pretty and grow
so easily that I am tempted not to care. One of these trials of my life
is what I am learning to know as liserone--we used to call it wild
morning-glory. That I am forbidden to have--if I want anything else.
But it is pretty.