And now enough may have perhaps been said to give some insight into Frank Oates’s life at Oxford, and with one more quotation from his letters, this period of his history shall be closed. His first year at college an attack upon his chest in early spring had prevented his residence during the summer term at the University, and led to his spending as much of the succeeding winter as the Oxford terms admitted of in Italy, where he gathered many pleasant reminiscences. The following spring, too, he was late in coming up, owing to a return of his ailment during the Easter vacation, when he was again a prisoner to his room at home. Writing on April 23d (1862), during this period of confinement, he says, “I see the tree-tops tipped with green, and hear the thrush’s voice, telling me of old times, and asking me why I keep house, and I’ve no doubt spring is here. So I want to be out again, and to greet her as an old friend.” And presently he was out again, revelling in the spring sunshine with his friends, the birds. But this is not the intended quotation. Sufficiently recovered from this illness for the journey back to Oxford, he returned there on May 9th to find the place “shaded with its great green trees, and with its gray old walls looking almost joyous.” It was not, however, till two evenings later that he “came in for the full benefit of the May aspect of things,” as he describes it, when he took a long ramble into the country to Wytham, and first saw the rich pastoral country which surrounds Oxford in its summer dress. His account of this walk, written (again to the same friend) on May 12th, tells forcibly of his appreciation of all country sights and sounds. “... Your letter arrived yesterday morning,” he says, “and of course my evening was at once laid out for me, and now I come to what I ought to have begun with--my ramble of last night. You perhaps thought, as it grew dusk, that I was still lingering about the scene you describe; and so I was. It was with really joyous feelings that I set out at six o’clock, and trudged along the Sevenbridge Road. It was Sunday evening, and the road was crowded with Oxford folks and the militia. The floods which surrounded the road seemed an object of interest to them, but I pushed on, bestowing a hurried glance now and then at the tufted willows, and islands, and shores of long grass, which dotted over and surrounded the lake-like fields, with the dappled sky reflected on their watery surface. Botley reached, I inquired the way to Wytham. A shady green lane was pointed out to me, and I was soon away in thought, all alone in that quiet place; and so on I strolled, through the fields, past the wood, through the village, and, as night closed in, back again. If I were a word-painter I might describe my walk; but not being one, should any attempt of mine thereat be intelligible to you, it will only be because you know what I would describe, and can realize my feelings.