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THE FLOWER-SHOW.
April 3d.
For a month I have written nothing in this brown notebook.

But to-day there is plenty to put down, and worth the trouble too.
Let me begin with the first shock.

This morning, my head crammed with passages from Latin authors, I leaned my brow against the pane of my window which looks on the garden.

The garden is not mine, of course, since I live on the fourth floor; but I have a view of the big weeping-willow in the centre, the sanded path that runs around it, and the four walls lined with borders, one of which separates it from the huge premises of the Carmelites.