[_Chez Siron, Barbizon, Seine et Marne, August 1875._]
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have been three days at a place called Grez, a pretty
and very melancholy village on the plain. A low bridge of many arches
choked with sedge; great fields of white and yellow 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,