We overtook old Fleming at Rydale, leading his little Dutchman-like grandchild along the slippery road. The same face seemed to be natural to them both--the old man and the little child--and they went hand in hand, the grandfather cautious, yet looking proud of his charge. He had two patches of new cloth at the shoulder-blades of his faded claret-coloured coat, like eyes at each shoulder, not worn elsewhere. I found Mary at home in her riding-habit, all her clothes being put up. We were very sad about Coleridge.... We stopped to look at the stone seat at the top of the hill. There was a white cushion upon it, round at the edge like a cushion, and the rock behind looked soft as velvet, of a vivid green, and so tempting! The snow too looked as soft as a down cushion. A young foxglove, like a star, in the centre. There were a few green lichens about it, and a few withered brackens of fern here and there upon the ground near, all else was a thick snow; no footmark to it, not the foot of a sheep.... We sate snugly round the fire. I read to them the Tale of Constance and the Syrian monarch, in the _Man of Lawe's Tale_, also some of the _Prologue_.... _Wednesday, 23rd._-- ... Mary wrote out the Tales from Chaucer for Coleridge. William worked at _The Ruined Cottage_ and made himself very ill.... A broken soldier came to beg in the morning. Afterwards a tall woman, dressed somewhat in a tawdry style, with a long checked muslin apron, a beaver hat, and throughout what are called good clothes. Her daughter had gone before, with a soldier and his wife. She had buried her husband at Whitehaven, and was going back into Cheshire. _Thursday, 24th._--Still a thaw. Wm., Mary, and I sate comfortably round the fire in the evening, and read Chaucer. Thoughts of last year. I took out my old Journal. _Friday, 25th._--_Christmas Day._ We received a letter from Coleridge. His letter made us uneasy about him. I was glad I was not by myself when I received it. _Saturday, 26th._-- ... We walked to Rydale. Grasmere Lake a beautiful image of stillness, clear as glass, reflecting all things. The wind was up, and the waters sounding. The lake of a rich purple, the fields a soft yellow, the island yellowish-green, the copses red-brown, the mountains purple, the church and buildings, how quiet they were! Poor Coleridge, Sara, and dear little Derwent here last year at this time. After tea we sate by the fire comfortably. I read aloud _The Miller's Tale_. Wrote to Coleridge.... Wm. wrote part of the poem to Coleridge.[43] [Footnote 43: See _Stanzas, written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence_, "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 305.--ED.] _Sunday, 27th._--A fine soft beautiful mild day, with gleams of sunshine. William went to take in his boat. I sate in John's Grove a little while. Mary came home. Mary wrote some lines of the third part of his poem, which he brought to read to us, when we came home....