Now I will tell you about our house. It is a nice one, and I have a bedroom with greeny paper, and out of the window you can see the Pentland hills and the flagstaff in front of them. The flagstaff is on the drying green, but the hills are a good deal farther away. Maid Margaret and I live there--that is, at nights, and I tell her stories if she will lie on her right side and not kick. Sometimes we have fights, but not such ones as the boys have up above. Often we can hear them stamping and thumping, and then coming down with a huge "bang" that you would think would shake down the house. That is when they clutch and wrestle. Outside there is just the Low Garden and the High Garden, a road between big old yew-trees, and then you are at the library, which is made of wood. And mostly there is a ticking sound inside, which is the typewriter--_tick-a-tack--tick-a-tack_! Then a pause, a few growls, and then the noise of a book being pulled out, rustling leaves, more stamps, more growls, and again--_tick-a-tack_! It goes on like that most of the time, except when the Animal inside must be fed, or on fine afternoons, when he comes out to play. _Then_ we have quite lovely times in the woods and hunting for things, or picnicking. And it is nice to see the white tablecloth, which Somebody has arranged on the green grass or under the shade, all covered with nice things for you to eat. Then all about there are woods--oh! miles and miles of them. There is the Low Park, where there are lots of apples--rather crabby, but not much the worse for that when you are really hungry. The Low Park is pretty big, and has a stream running through it, quite slowly and steadily. Then down below is the river-bed, all rocks and pools. Because the water is drawn off for the mills below. We can play there in the summer-time, and keep fish as safe as in an aquarium. Of course there are nice places higher up--where Esk goes along lipping over the pebbles, tugging at the overhanging branches of trees, or opening out to make a mirror for the purple heather on the slopes above. But of all these you shall hear before I have done. Oh, yes, I mean that you shall. And in the evening all is lovely dark purple except the hills, which are light purple and green in patches, the shape of cloud-shadows. I wonder if ever you got to love words, colors, and things till they grew to be part of yourself? What do I mean? Well, I will try and explain. When I was little, the word "purple" somehow nearly made me cry. Oh, no--I did not like dresses that color, nor even ribbons--much. Only just the word. Sometimes funnily, as in the line-- "A pleasant purple Porpoise, From the Waters of Chili."