wn had he not, however vaguely,
entertained the thought of putting them to some use. I suspect that, in
his happy leisure, there grew upon him a desire to write one more book, a
book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction. Plainly,
it would have been the best he had it in him to do. But he seems never
to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary pieces, and
probably because he could not decide upon the form they should take. I
imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first-person volume; he would
feel it too pretentious; he would bid himself wait for the day of riper
wisdom. And so the pen fell from his hand.

Conjecturing thus, I wondered whether the irregular diary might not have
wider interest than at first appeared. To me, its personal appeal was
very strong; might it not be possible to cull from it the substance of a
small volume which, at least for its sincerity's sake, would not be
without value for those who read, not with the eye alone, but with the
mind? I turned the pages again. Here was a man who, having his desire,
and that a very modest one, not only felt satisfied, but enjoyed great
happiness. He talked of many different things, saying exactly what he
thought; he spoke of himself, and told the truth as far as mortal can
tell it. It seemed to me that the thing had human interest. I decided
to print.

The question of arrangement had to be considered; I did not like to offer
a mere incondite miscellany. To supply each of the disconnected passages
with a title, or even to group them under subject headings, would have
interfered with the spontaneity which, above all, I wished to preserve.
In reading through the matter I had selected, it struck me how often the
aspects of nature were referred to, and how suitable many of the
reflections were to the month with which they were dated. Ryecroft, I
knew, had ever been much influenced by the mood of the sky, and by the
procession of the year. So I hit upon the thought of dividing the little
book into four chapters, named after the seasons. Like all
classifications, it is imperfect, but 'twill serve.

G. G.

SPRING

I.

For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written nothing
for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during one or two bouts
of illness, such a thing never happened in my life before. In my life;
the life, that is, which had to be supported by anxious toil; the life
whi