ow, when all
seems stale, flat, unprofitable, the pleasure and interest I have had
in reading your Vol. 3 ["Modern Painters"]. I study your character in
your writings, and I find so much to elevate, to love, to admire--a
sort of education for my poor old self--and oh! such beauty of thought
and word.

Even yet my birds want so much bread; I do believe the worms are
sealed up in the dry earth, and they have many little mouths to fill
just now--and there is one old blackbird whose devotion to his wife
and children is lovely. I should like him never to die, he is _one_ of
my heroes. And now a dog which calls upon me sometimes at the window,
and I point kitchenwards and the creature knows what I mean, and goes
and gets a good meal. So if I can only make a dog happy (as you do,
only you take yours to live with you, and I cannot do that) it is a
pleasant thing. I do so like to make things happier, and I should like
to put bunches of hay in the fields for the poor horses, for there is
very scant supply of grass, and too many for the supply.

[Footnote 48: See "Fors Clavigera", Letter XLV., and "Sesame and Lilies."]

* * * * *

_1st May._

I cannot longer refrain from writing to you, my dear kind friend, so
often are you in my thoughts. Dearest Joanie has told you, I doubt
not, and I know how sorry you are, and how truly you are feeling for
your poor Susie. So _knowing that_ I will say no more about my sorrow.
There is no need for words. I am wishing, oh, so much, to know how you
are: quite safe and well, I hope, and able to have much real enjoyment
in the many beautiful things by which you are surrounded. May you lay
up a great stock of good health and receive much good in many ways,
and then return to those who so much miss you, and by whom you are so
greatly beloved.

Coniston would go into your heart if you could see it now--so very
lovely, the oak trees so early, nearly in leaf already. Your beloved
blue hyacinths will soon be out, and the cuckoo has come, but it is
long since Susie has been out. She only stands at an open window, but
she must try next week to go into the garden; and she is finding a
real pleasure in making extracts from your writings, _for you_, often
wondering "will he let that remain?" and hoping that he will.

Do you ever send home orders about your Brantwood? I have been
wishing so much that your gardener might be told to mi