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On almost every American mail-day I think of writing to you, but I have a bad habit of putting off things—as you know, & week after week slips by & accuses my long silence. This remissness is very much of a part with the rest of my story of late. I seem to have done nothing but vegetate, & think of the fine fruition that there may be to come. However, it is good to vegetate too at times.

Since writing last, I have moved still higher up Hampstead Heath, & am now at the very top of everything, with fine old trees & gardens all around & the northern part of the Heath leading on to a wide sweep of open country beyond, making a characteristic view   of the English kind, quite unlike anything that I saw in America. As for the Heath itself, it has a comparative wildness for a place so near London, & makes a capital background for a holiday crowd such as comes up here on Easter Monday, when penny shows & all sorts of nonsense flourish amain.

Cold winds have rather kept back the spring in the last week or two, but now the trees are getting fairly green. Opposite my window the birds kick up a great row in the branches, as they discuss the delicate question of mating & nesting & teaching the youngsters the social proprieties. Happy little rascals, that have not to write—write—write, for a living.

By the way, have you seen Havelock Ellis's book,—"The New Spirit," in which you figure very notably? No doubt the writer (who is a good friend of mine, & an original fellow) has sent you a copy. If he has not, I must send you one.—I'm afraid I must stop here to-day

I will write again soon—in time for your approaching birthday.

So long! Ernest Rhys