SUSIE'S LETTERS.
The following Letters and the little Notes on Birds are inserted here by the express wish of Mr. Ruskin. I had it in my mind to pay Susie some extremely fine compliments about these Letters and Notes, and to compare her method of observation with Thoreau's, and above all, to tell some very pretty stories showing her St. Francis-like sympathy with, and gentle power over, all living creatures; but Susie says that she is already far too prominent, and we hope that the readers of "Hortus" will see for themselves how she reverences and cherishes all noble life, with a special tenderness, I think, for furred and feathered creatures. To all outcast and hungry things the Thwaite is a veritable Bethlehem, or House of Bread, and to her, their sweet "Madonna Nourrice," no less than to her Teacher, the sparrows and linnets that crowd its thresholds are in a very particular sense "Sons of God."
A. F.
April 14th, 1874.
I sent off such a long letter to you yesterday, my dear friend. Did you think of your own quotation from Homer, when you told me that field of yours was full of violets? But where are the four fountains of white water?—through a meadow full of violets and parsley? How delicious Calypso's fire of finely chopped cedar! How shall I thank you for allowing me, Susie the little, to distill your writings? Such a joy and comfort to me—for I shall need much very soon now. I [Pg 94] do so thank and love you for it; I am sure I may say so to you. I rejoice again and again that I have such a friend. May I never love him less, never prove unworthy of his friendship! How I wanted my letter, and now it has come, and I have told our Dr. John of your safe progress so far. I trust you will be kept safe from everything that might injure you in any way.
The snow has melted away, and this is a really sweet April day and ought to be enjoyed—if only Susie could. But both she and her dear friend must strive with their grief. When I was a girl—(I was once)—I used to delight in Pope's Homer. I do believe I rather enjoyed the killing and slaying, specially the splitting down the chine! But when I tried to read it again not very long ago, I got tired of this kind of thing. If you had only translated Homer! then I should have had a feast. When a school-girl, going each day with my bag of books into Manchester, I used to like Don Quixote and Sir Charles Grandison with my milk porridge. I must send you only this short letter to-day. I can see your violet field from this window. How sweetly the little limpid stream would tinkle to-day; and how the primroses are sitting listening to it and the little birds sipping it! I have come to the conclusion that bees go more by sight than by scent. As I stand by my peacock with his gloriously gorgeous tail all spread out, a bee comes right at it (very vulgar, but expressive); and I have an Alpine Primula on this window stone brightly in flower, and a bee came and alighted, but went away again at once, not finding the expected honey. I wonder what you do the livelong day, for I know you and idleness are not acquaintances. I am so sorry your favorite places are spoiled. But dear Brantwood will grow prettier and prettier under your care.