apart from other reasons which impel you to your work, you cannot but feel that really if you were to turn away from your task of writing, there is nothing to which you could take that you would enjoy very much more than itself.  And even on the fairest summer morning, you can, if you are living in town, take to your task with comparative ease.  Somehow, in town, the weather is farther off from you; it does not pervade all the house, as it does in the country:  you have not windows that open into the garden:  through which you see green trees and grass every time you look up; and through which you can in a minute, without the least change of dress, pass into the verdant scene.  There is all the difference in the world, between the shadiest and greenest public garden or park even within a hundred yards of your door; and the green shady little spot that comes up to your very window.  The former is no very great temptation to the busy scholar of rural tastes; the latter is almost irresistible.  A hundred yards are a long way to go, with purpose prepense of enjoying something so simple as the green earth.  After having walked even a hundred yards, you feel that you need a more definite aim.  And the grass and trees seem very far away, if you see them at the end of a vista of washing your hands, and putting on another coat and other boots, and still more of putting on gloves and a hat.  Give me the little patch of grass, the three or four shady trees, the quiet corner of the shrubbery, that comes up to the study window, and which you can reach without even the formality of passing through the hall and out by the front door.  If you wish to enjoy nature in the summer-time, you must attend to all these little things.  What stout old gentleman but knows that when he is seated snugly in his easy chair by the winter evening fireside, he would take up and read many pages in a volume which lay within reach of his arm, though he would do without the volume, if in order to get it he had to take the slight trouble of rising from his chair and walking to a table half a dozen yards off?  Even so must nature be brought within easy reach of even the true lover of nature; otherwise on a hundred occasions, all sorts of little, fanciful hindrances will stand between him and her habitual appreciation.  A very small thing may prevent your doing a thing which you even wish to do; but which you do not wish with any special excitement, and which you may do at any time.  I daresay some reader would have written months since to a friend in India to whom he promised faithfully to write frequently, but that when he sat down once or twice to write, and pulled out his paper-drawer, lie found that all the thin Indian paper was done.  And so the upshot is, that the friend has been a year out; and you have never written to him at all.