But to return to the point from which this deviation proceeded, I repeat, that on a fine summer morning in the country it is excessively difficult to take to your work.  Apart from the repellent influence which is in work itself, you think that you will miss so much.  You go out after breakfast (with a wide-awake hat, and no gloves) into the fresh atmosphere.  You walk round the garden.  You look particularly at the more eminent roses, and the largest trees.  You go to the stable-yard, and see what is doing there.  There are twenty things to think of:  numberless little directions to give.  You see a weedy corner, and that must not be suffered:  you see a long spray of a climbing rose that needs training.  You look into the corn-chest:  the corn is almost finished.  You have the fact impressed upon you that the old potatoes are nearly done, and the new ones hardly ready for use.  These things partake of the nature of care:  if you do not feel very well, you will regard them as worries.  But it is no care nor worry to walk down to your gate, to lean upon it, and to look at the outline of the hills:  nor to go out with your little children, and walk slowly along the country lane outside your gate, relating for the hundredth time the legend of the renowned giant-killer, or the enchanted horse that flew through the air; to walk on till you come to the bridge, and there sit down, and throw in stones for your dog to dive after, while various shouts (very loud to come from such little mouths) applaud his success.  How crystal-clear the water of the river!  It is six feet deep, yet you may see every pebble of its bed.  An undefined laziness possesses you.  You would like to sit here, and look, and think, all day.  But of course you will not give in to the temptation.  Slowly you return to your door:  unwillingly you enter it:  reluctantly you take to your work.  Until you have got somewhat into the spirit of your task, you cannot help looking sometimes at the roses which frame your window, and the green hill you see through it, with white sheep.  And even when you have got your mind under control, and the lines flow more willingly from your pen, you cannot but look out occasionally into the sunshiny, shady corner in your view, and think you should be there.  And when the prescribed pages are at length completed, how delightful to lock them up, and be off into the air again!  You are far happier now than you were in the morning.  The shadow of your work was upon you then:  now you may with a pleased conscience, and under no sense of pressure, saunter about, and enjoy your little domain.  Many things have been accomplished since you went indoors.  The weeds are gone from the corner:  the spray of the rose lias been trained.  The potato-beds have been examined:  the potatoes will be all ready in two days more.  Sit down in the shade, warm yet cool, of a great tree.  Now is the time to read the Saturday Review, especially the article that pitches into you.  What do you