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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
203
XII.
The
good
S---
writes
me
a
kindly
letter.
He
is
troubled
by
the
thought
of
my
loneliness.
That
I
should
choose
to
live
in
such
a
place
as
this
through
the
summer,
he
can
understand;
but
surely
I
should
do
better
to
come
to
town
for
the
winter?
How
on
earth
do
I
spend
the
dark
days
and
the
long
evenings?
I
chuckle
over
the
good
S---'s
sympathy.
Dark
days
are
few
in
happy
Devon,
and
such
as
befall
have
never
brought
me
a
moment's
tedium.
The
long,
wild
winter
of
the
north
would
try
my
spirits;
but
here,
the
season
that
follows
autumn
is
merely
one
of
rest,
Nature's
annual
slumber.
And
I
share
in
the
restful
influence.
Often
enough
I
pass
an
hour
in
mere
drowsing
by
the
fireside;
frequently
I
let
my
book
drop,
satisfied
to
muse.
But
more
often
than
not
the
winter
day
is
blest
with
sunshine--the
soft
beam
which
is
Nature's
smile
in
dreaming.
I
go
forth,
and
wander
far.
It
pleases
me
to
note
changes
of
landscape
when
the
leaves
have
fallen;
I
see
streams
and
ponds
which
during
summer
were
hidden;
my
favourite
lanes
have
an
unfamiliar
aspect,
and
I
become
better
acquainted
with
them.
Then,
there
is
a
rare
beauty
in
the
structure
of
trees
ungarmented;
and
if
perchance
snow
or
frost
have
silvered
their
tracery
against
the
sober
sky,
it
becomes
a
marvel
which
never
tires.
Day
by
day
I
look
at
the
coral
buds
on
the
lime-tree.
Something
of
regret
will
mingle
with
my
joy
when
they
begin
to
break.
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