ky, and faint northern daylight, it was quite
wonderful to hear such a clamour of blackbirds coming up to me out of
the woods, and the bleating of sheep being shorn in a field near the
garden, and to see golden patches of blossom already on the furze, and
delicate green shoots upright and beginning to frond out, among last
year's russet bracken. Flights of crows were passing continually between
the wintry leaden sky and the wintry cold-looking hills. It was the
oddest conflict of seasons. A wee rabbit--this year's making, beyond
question--ran out from under my feet, and was in a pretty perturbation,
until he hit upon a lucky juniper and blotted himself there promptly.
Evidently this gentleman had not had much experience of life.

I have made an arrangement with my people: I am to have L84 a year--I
only asked for L80 on mature reflection--and as I should soon make a
good bit by my pen, I shall be very comfortable. We are all as jolly as
can be together, so that is a great thing gained.

_Wednesday._--Yesterday I received a letter that gave me much pleasure
from a poor fellow-student of mine, who has been all winter very ill,
and seems to be but little better even now. He seems very much pleased
with _Ordered South_. "A month ago," he says, "I could scarcely have
ventured to read it; to-day I felt on reading it as I did on the first
day that I was able to sun myself a little in the open air." And much
more to the like effect. It is very gratifying.--Ever your faithful
friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

Mr. John Morley had asked for a notice by R. L. S. for the
Fortnightly Review, which he was then editing, of Lord Lytton's newly
published volume, _Fables in Song._

_Swanston, Lothianburn, Edinburgh [May 1874]._

All right. I'll see what I can do. Before I could answer I had to see
the book; and my good father, after trying at all our libraries, bought
it for me. I like the book; that is some of it and I'll try to lick up
four or five pages for the Fortnightly.

It is still as cold as cold, hereaway. And the Spring hammering away at
the New Year in despite. Poor Spring, scattering flowers with red hands
and preparing for Summer's triumphs all in a shudder herself. Health
still good, and the humour for work enduring.

Jenkin wrote to say he would second me in such a kind little notelet. I
shall go in for it (the Savile I mean) whether _Victor Hugo_ is accepted
or not,