I have not written much; but, like the seaman's parrot in the tale, I have thought a deal. You have never, by the way, returned me either _Spring_ or _Béranger_, which is certainly a d----d shame. I always comforted myself with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter to you. "Thus conscience"--O no, that's not appropriate in this connection.--Ever yours, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. I say, is there any chance of your coming north this year? Mind you that promise is now more respectable for age than is becoming. R. L. S. TO CHARLES BAXTER The following epistle in verse, with its mixed flavour of Burns and Horace, gives a lively picture of winter forenoons spent in the Parliament House:-- [_Edinburgh, October 1875._] Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green, Red are the bonny woods o' Dean, An' here we're back in Embro, freen', To pass the winter. Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in, An' snaws ahint her. I've seen's hae days to fricht us a', The Pentlands poothered weel wi' snaw, The ways half-smoored wi' liquid thaw, An' half-congealin', The snell an' scowtherin' norther blaw Frae blae Brunteelan'. I've seen's been unco sweir to sally, And at the door-cheeks daff an' dally, Seen's daidle thus an' shilly-shally For near a minute-- Sae cauld the wind blew up the valley, The deil was in it!-- Syne spread the silk an' tak the gate In blast an' blaudin' rain, deil hae't! The hale toon glintin', stane an' slate, Wi' cauld an' weet, An' to the Court, gin we'se be late, Bicker oor feet. And at the Court, tae, aft I saw Whaur Advocates by twa an' twa Gang gesterin' end to end the ha' In weeg an' goon, To crack o' what ye wull but Law The hale forenoon. That muckle ha', maist like a kirk, I've kent at braid mid-day sae mirk Ye'd seen white weegs an' faces lurk Like ghaists frae Hell, But whether Christian ghaists or Turk Deil ane could tell. The three fires lunted in the gloom, The wind blew like the blast o' doom, The rain upo' the roof abune Played Peter Dick---- Ye wad nae'd licht enough i' the room Your teeth to pick! But, freend, ye ken how me an' you, The ling-lang lanely winter through, Keep'd a guid speerit up, an' true To lore Horatian, We aye the ither bottle drew To inclination. Sae let us in the comin' days Stand sicker on our auncient ways-- The strauchtest road in a' the maze Since Eve ate apples; An' let the winter weet our cla'es-- We'll weet our thrapples. TO SIDNEY COLVIN The two following letters refer to the essay on the Spirit of Spring which I was careless enough to lose in the process of a change of rooms at Cambridge. _The Petits Poèmes en Prose_ were attempts, not altogether successful, in the form though not in the spirit of Baudelaire. _Swanston [Autumn 1875]._