Light striking water in the vase of branches casts a sundog on the pale green blotter of the old man’s desk and he is half-way through the letter he is writing when it dawns on him the friend to whom this letter is addressed is gone. He’s dead, this friend. This friend of his who’d like this letter, how could he forget? Too long ago to be remembered, nothing left to do but stop but still he’d like to finish. He’d like to feel as full of news as when he started it, he’d like to have that news a rainbow on his mind, to see it clearly as this pot here on this dotter. Pesk. This spot here on this blotter on his desk. This . . . pen! yes. This what this pen this instrument: This water dropping down.

Saying something: What’s she saying? Doesn’t know how young she is. She doesn’t know how young a thing can look in what’s this instance sort of thing that dances, daylight:

“Uncle Harry?” she is saying. “You’ve been crying. Do you understand? These words? You’re crying. Here. Your tears are falling down. You’ve made your paper wet, see? Here: You’re crying. Tears. These things are tears: Now. You’ve been crying. Can you tell me why you’re crying: Harry? Try.”

. . . Fry: a hundred of them. Joey, Trout!

“Oh, you’ve made a picture. May I see it.? Harry.? What you’ve drawn?”

This is Joey’s fetter.

. . . Letter!

“Oh, it’s pretty, Harry: Hold it up. It’s very pretty. Am I right to think you’ve drawn a fish?”

Yes! a dish . . .

The stream.