PREFACE.
Brantwood, 9th June, 1881.Quarter past five, morning.
The birds chirping feebly,—mostly chaffinches answering each other, the rest discomposed, I fancy, by the June snow; the lake neither smooth nor rippled, but like a surface of perfectly bright glass, ill cast; the lines of wave few and irregular, like flaws in the planes of a fine crystal.
I see this book was begun eight years ago;—then intended to contain only four...
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