“What a difference it makes! Of course some people are as cheerful peeling potatoes in a dark kitchen on a wet day as they are at a Spring garden party playing tennis.
But to most folks sunshine means a tremendous lot. We wake up in the morning, and we wonder why we remember so many dis-agreeables. The friends who have failed us and the meat that is turning off, and the jams that have soared in price , and the sale blouses which have both sleeves for one arm. Never do we feel we can cope with things again. And we wonder why. And we think, perhaps, our diet is all wrong- we decide to give up the “early cup of
If it isn’t a diet, maybe we are working too hard. And we vow we won’t have a single room turned out for the next fortnight; we won’t make the garden tidy; we’ll let it all go, we won’t re-paint the stairs, well leave them shabby. And a vista of untidy comfortless days in which we shall amble flaggingly along dusty passages and through weedy plots of rebuking
Yet we don’t feel better a bit. An inspiration comes to us. We’re not working enough! Yes, that’s it. So we try to brace our spirits and declare we’ll distemper every distemper-able spot in the house, scrub every scrubbable corner; whitewash every inch of ceiling. we will pull up weeds, mow grass plots, train shrubs, and “stick” plants.
The tears almost come to our eyes, for we know we shall break down over the last geranium, and then people will be sorry. On second thoughts, we feel doubtful if we have anyone in the whole circle of our acquaintanceship who is warm-hearted enough to be grieved at anything.
Just then we glance at the clock. It is ten-minutes to breakfast-time. We jump up in a hurry and rush through the next quarter of an hour. Then we pull up the blind. Pouring!
“Bit late aren’t you?” says the ultra bright one, already sitting at the table and eating with relish. “Wet weather always makes you feel mouldy, doesn’t it? But the sun’s coming out and you’ll be a new creature.” And as a watery gleam kisses the bacon and the margerine, and flirts about the bowl of scarlet berries, you smile.
“Yes I ought to be ashamed of myself” you say and you dip into three letters from the nicest people in existence, and enjoy the sense of well-being which the strengthening rays throw upon your world.”
By Lillian Gard, 1921
And isn’t she right? Doesn’t the sun make everything seem possible?