It is wearing me out.
I had positively decided on my own side steps for the scene of my
proposal to the Crag, under the honeysuckle vine that still has a few
brave and hearty blossoms to encourage me, with the harvest moon
looking on, but moons and honeysuckle blossoms wait for no man and no
woman especially. They are both fading, and I've never got the spot to
myself more than a minute at a time yet. The Crag, with absolutely no
knowledge of my intentions, except it may be a psychic one, sits there
every night and smokes and looks out at Old Harpeth and maddens me,
while some one of the others walks in and out and around and about and
sits down beside him, where I want to be.
And as for the day time, I am so busy all day long, providing for this
perpetual house-party, that I am dead to even friendship by night. Jane
is doing over Glendale from city limits to the river, and I have to
spend my time keeping the dear town from finding out what is being done
to it.
She is hunting out everybody's pet idea or ideal for some sort of change
or improvement to his, especially _his_, native town, and then leading
him gently up to accomplishing it so that he will think he has done it
entirely by himself, but will tell the next man he meets that there is
nothing in the world like a tine energetic woman with good horse sense.
In fact, Jane is courting the entire male population in a most
scandalous fashion, and they'll be won before they know it.
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