w water-lilies;
poplars and willows innumerable; and about it all such an atmosphere of
sadness and slackness, one could do nothing but get into the boat and
out of it again, and yawn for bedtime.

Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very creditable
thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; sometimes the rain was so heavy
that one could only see by holding the hand over the eyes; and to crown
all, we lost our way and wandered all over the place, and into the
artillery range, among broken trees, with big shot lying about among the
rocks. It was near dinner-time when we got to Barbizon; and it is
supposed that we walked from twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is
not bad for the Advocate, who is not tired this morning. I was very glad
to be back again in this dear place, and smell the wet forest in the
morning.

Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet as
we did.

Why don't you write? I have no more to say.--Ever your affectionate son,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

At this time Stevenson was much occupied, as were several young
writers his contemporaries, with imitating the artificial forms of
early French verse. Only one of his attempts, I believe, has been
preserved, besides the two contained in this letter. The second is a
variation on a theme of Banville's.

_Chateau Renard, Loiret, August 1875._

I have been walking these last days from place to place; and it does
make it hot for walking with a sack in this weather. I am burned in
horrid patches of red; my nose, I fear, is going to take the lead in
colour; Simpson is all flushed, as if he were seen by a sunset. I send
you here two rondeaux; I don't suppose they will amuse anybody but me;
but this measure, short and yet intricate, is just what I desire; and I
have had some good times walking along the glaring roads, or down the
poplar alley of the great canal, pitting my own humour to this old
verse.

Far have you come, my lady, from the town,
And far from all your sorrows, if you please,
To smell the good sea-winds and hear the seas,
And in green meadows lay your body down.

To find your pale face grow from pale to brown,
Your sad eyes growing brighter by degrees;
Far have you come, my lady, from the town,
And far from all your sorrows, if you please.

Here in this seaboard land of old renown,
In meadow grass go wading to the knees;
Bathe your