two o'clock
It is to be borne in winter by the simple expedient of turning your face to the fire ; but when you have no fire , and very long days , your cheerfulness slowly slips away , and the dreariness prevailing out of doors comes in and broods in the blank corners of your heart . I rather fancy , however , that it is a waste of energy to ponder over what I should do if we had a wet summer on such a radiant day as this . I prefer sitting here on the verandah and looking down through a frame of leaves at all the rosebuds June has put in the beds round the sun-dial , to ponder over nothing , and just be glad that I am alive . The verandah at two o'clock on a summer 's afternoon is a place in which to be happy and not decide anything , as my friend Thoreau told me of some other tranquil spot this morning . The chairs are comfortable , there is a table to write on , and the shadows of young leaves flicker across the paper . On one side a Crimson Rambler is thrusting inquisitive shoots through the wooden bars , being able this year for the first time since it was planted to see what I am doing up here , and next to it a Jackmanni clematis clings with soft young fingers to anything it thinks likely to help it up to the goal of its ambition , the roof . I wonder which of the two will get there first .