Viewing page 20 of 23

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

November 6th.

Little girl, I have been wondering if my letters to you sometimes seem different to what my thought is, writing.

I was talking to-day to a little friend of mine who has seen me many years, and from her I discovered, to my no small amazement, that the letters written by me during the summer had appeared "so cold." — I thought how often and how carefully I had written, for it was not as to you, of whom I fear not either a long silence, or one thought unlike my own, but I had put more warmth and cordiality (as I believed) into

once there, but was it not a somewhat ungracious gift?— How now, Hieronymos , (you say) whence bringest thou this bunch of splendid in rose-stalks? "From my master, sweet lady, who, at the last moment, knowing that you would know what flowers these are, did shear off the roses, with his sword."- Ah Hierome, Hierome, my true jester! and didn't thou not see this humour of this present?- (But I trust Hieronymos preserved a wooden countenance.) - [[strikethrough]] But [[/strikethrough]]next page To others I [[strikethrough]] would [[/strikethrough]] will  [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]]send a bunch of flowers, tied up, and neatly wrapped about in white paper, bought at an irreproachable horticulturist's, looking quite fresh, with water from the syringe at the last moment. But not the roses from my garden, sparkling with dew, armed with thorns, [[strikethrough]] holding [[/strikethrough]] raising up their proud heads, [[strikethrough]] which [[/strikethrough]] that are not [[strikethrough]] supported [[/strikethrough]] held up by wires! And when I give these, I cut not one from the bush here and there, but I pull them up by the roots, so that every rose is there entire for you, to do what you will with

Methinks, Hierome I should indeed have been born in the Middle-Ages, for these quaint allegories exist not these modern times.

Transcription Notes:
Not sure about relation between the two halves