I should have commented that the actual dinner was a good one. I had great fun talking utter nonsense, but exercising my intellectual skills and successfully confounding Colonel Hill, the Steward of Christ Church with the use of mathematical formulae - concerning degrees of Utopia to the nth, or n-(n-2)th degree. It is somehow delightfully entertaining to talk rubbish, and yet to see that you are impressing people!

One of my purposes for going up to London on Thursday, was to meet Alec Malcolm. But I didn't feel at all at ease. And what made me especially uncomfortable right from the start was the way, when I walked into the lift and told the liftman to take me up to the first floor, he merely gesticulated with his thumb indicating the stairs, and saying: "Use those." I was dumbfounded for a second, and then it dawned upon me that the man took me for a messenger boy, and regarded it as beneath his dignity to perform the service for me of a ride in his lift. And here I was as one of his employers' wealthier clients, being turfed out of the lift and told to use the stairs. If I made a fuss at all, it would need to be a big one - telling him that he'd better comply at once, or he'd be out of a job - a threat which I'd have to see carried out if he disobeyed. But this was no way to be introducing myself to my Stockbrokers. It somehow seemed wisest that I should quite simply allow that I was a mere messenger boy and use the stairs as he dictated. But after this, I don't suppose I'll ever feel really at ease with this company. The humiliation rankles inwardly.

After the party I had given for Guy Fawkes night, I went out to participate in whatever hooliganism I might find going on in the streets. But in point of fact, I hadn't got round to doing anything at all exciting. I was just watching the others - and Michael Moseley in particular, who was answering back to the Junior Proctor, and refusing to give his name when asked. He has in fact decided to give up his studies - or so I'm told - so was now virtually beyond the reach of their authority (even if they didn't know it.) And when the Bulldog came up and dug him in the ribs with his finger, repeating his request for a name, Michael promptly dug him back and told him to watch out, as we were supposed to be living in a democracy where we all had equal rights.

But the Proctor's next tactic was to turn on those who were evidently Michael's friends, and to take their names instead - which meant that my own name got taken. Or when he asked for it, Michael shouted: "No don't give it to him! Just who the hell does this little man think he is?" And he started to dance around flapping his arms in imitation of an excited cockerel. That wasn't much assistance to myself. And it was perhaps unwise of me to ask if the man had any identification with him - which he promptly produced. So I gave him my name, which probably means that I shall get fined.

On Thursday I was summoned to the Proctors to account for my activities on the 5th November. And I found that he penalized me for the fact that Michael had made such a fool of him - fining me £4, which was a bit stiff and far more than I'd been expecting. He was quite sadistic about it too, turning to me with a sarcastic smile to enquire: "I trust that you can recognize who I am, now that I am sitting in this office?" I squirmed uncomfortably and acknowledged that I could. The charge incidentally was that I'd been observed throwing a firework.

Not content with that however, I received an additional summons this morning, when I found myself charged with failing to return to my college after I had been told to. This was true, and I had in fact climbed over the wall at a much later hour. But I managed to get away with it on this occasion by claiming that I'd never been told to report when I got back, and that what I'd done was to return to my room without further ado. So I saved myself from any increase to the sum, which serves as compensation that the initial fine was too harsh.

I was chatting in lively fashion with Anthony Snow and a dancer called Franklin White. I was in good form taking up Anthony upon some point which he had stated, and trying to prove to him that the converse was true. And he was laughing at my verbal dexterity, saying: "You've got to watch out with this man! He'll argue you round in circles!"

It was said lightly enough, but Franklin White seemed to regard it as a personal challenge, saying: "That's all right - I'm quite used to dealing with his type." And he was looking at me with a fierce smile, as if inviting eyeball to eyeball contact, to discover which of us might be the dominant male. I didn't want to participate within any such confrontation, and felt privately aggrieved with Anthony for putting me into such a spot. It hadn't been my intention to be aggressive in any way at all, but I now felt that I couldn't converse without inviting some manner of verbal contest. And under those circumstances, I just lost any desire to remain at their party. So I went back home.

There appears to be some strange change in people's attitude towards me over the last few weeks - and I'm not sure why it is. People like George H, Jimmy S, James S and Adrian S all display it - as if they are feeling some new interest in me. And I wish I could discern what might be at the root of it all. I think they must all have been present when there was some discussion about me - perhaps focussing upon my sex life - but whether an interest to be explained in terms of increased compassion, or admiration, I remain unsure. In any case, whether deserved or not, I feel flattered that they should be talking about me.

I have received a note from that man [D], who once donated a box of his poems to Mum. He was trying to befriend me over my first term at Oxford, although I have only spoken to him on a minimal number of occasions. But he never lets up on sending me invitations to come to dinner parties that he is arranging. And last week I received another. Again I declined. But he now followed it up with one of his poems, asking what I thought of it, and saying that he was changing the date of the dinner in the hopes that I would then be able to attend.

This was too much. Inflicting me with his poems is bad enough, but then making it so awkward for me to decline his dinner invitation politely was inexcusable. So I decided it was time to give him some more definite discouragement. I composed what I considered to be a polite letter - thanking but declining - but I ended it by saying how I knew he would not be offended by my refusal, since he must have many other friends whom he knows far better than myself, and who would doubtless be very happy to accept his invitations. I think that ought to do the trick.

On Monday I received an irate reply from [D]. He began off by saying that he was well and soundly rebuked - then going on about British affectation, snobbism and stand-offishness, putting this in contrast with the American desire to be friendly. So I fear that he really has taken offence. But I honestly don't see how I should have handled it otherwise. He was trying to corner me into an acceptance that I must befriend him when I simply didn't want to. I need to set limits to my ever-expanding social life, or I'd have no time to tackle the things which are more important to me. So it's just too bad if I've now made an enemy of him.

On Thursday I received another invitation from [D]! It's almost unbelievable. Can he be that thick-skinned? Or is he just determined to show that he doesn't care if I snub him? This time I think it will be best if I just ignore his letter.

I have never seen the House filled with so many drunks. There was a horde of them outside throwing snowballs and breaking windows. The sound of splintering glass was quite intimidating. Then came the ominous thud of a snowball against my own window. I waited anxiously and then heard another. So I went to it and opened the curtain - standing there so that all should see me. There were no more snowballs thrown in the direction of my window. I saw next morning how a great many of the windows on the ground floor in Peck had gaping holes in them. And Nick Ashton informed me that people had been giving my own window a wide berth, in that they regarded me as someone who might retaliate!

Later in the evening on Friday, I went out to dinner with Tim Sainsbury, Bill Harris and Stuart Keith. I thought it would be a quiet little dinner, with possibly a glass of wine thrown in. However by the end of it, we were each paying a bill just short of £2. That's the trouble from ganging up with a group of gourmets and connoisseurs!

On Thursday Tim S had invited me to the Kingsly dinner at Worcester College - which I think rates as their equivalent of Loders. It was the most enormous dinner that I have ever eaten in my life. There were ten courses! - soup, egg souffle, sole, wiener schnitzel (plus salad), duck, zabaglione, devils on horseback, cheese, fruit and coffee - plus an abundant supply of good wine. The atmosphere was most restrained in comparison with Loders, since the emphasis was on what one ate and drank, rather than upon the drunken behaviour that might arise. But to tell the truth, I enjoyed myself a lot better than I usually do at Loders.

On Friday morning I received a telegram from Dawyk Haig, asking me to return at once the two paintings I had removed from his London exhibition. This was the hell of a nuisance, since I had to make a special trip up to London to do his bidding - especially in that we got Mortimer's approval for the one I most preferred, so the purchase can now be made. In any case I was able to combine the trip with going round to collect [X] for the Bullingdon dance.

On Tuesday afternoon, Colin Clark asked if he could sit in my room and read one of my books on Politics while I was off elsewhere. I said that he could. But when I finally returned (more than an hour later), I was in a hurry and running. I burst into my room to find that Colin was still there. But he was standing there in the middle of the room, looking distinctly guilty - as if he had jumped up from my desk, and hadn't yet found anything appropriate to occupy himself. Immediately it occurred to me that he had been reading my journal, which I'd left there on the desk. And it occurs to me since then that he has been talking as if he'd had secret access to some of the things I've written there - like the way I worry about my thought processes being too laborious and slow. He picked up on that point when I was talking to him in the Grid - as if he knew how he'd catch me on the raw with such a light remark. I really must be more careful to keep my journal where it cannot easily be found.

So much of what I come to understand arrives in my head by way of an instinctive grasp of the situation. I realize how there's a temptation to regard this as telepathy, but I don't think it's that. I pick up quickly on some nuance of expression, connecting it up with things said previously or jumping to a guess concerning things yet to happen, and I think I get an accurate notion thereby of ideas which may be strangely relevant. I offer such processes as an explanation for the intuitive distrust I feel for Colin, as being someone who might avail himself of any such information that he finds, and then utilize it to my disadvantage.

On Wednesday I had to read my thesis to the Canning Club, to a fairly good attendance. I had hoped that [W] would be there, lending some authority to what I was trying to say. But it seems that my note inviting him must have gone astray - or that is what he claims. Anyway I was feeling distinctly nervous at having to contend with all the criticism on my own. And there was quite a bit of it - mainly against my notion of linking moral thought with man's evolutionary process, when most of them determinedly regard it as something totally apart.

A don called John Lucas from Merton College had been invited to answer my paper, and I'm afraid he was quite dismissive about what I had written. The fault was probably mine in that, to bolster my own courage, I made some uncalled for gibes about sabotaging the opposition when it was discovered, after the interval, that he had lost the notes he had taken, and on which his reply was to be based. I think this may have antagonized him, and he wound up his reply by saying that my attitude of disrespect for morality was neither funny, clever nor grand. Well I took all that in my stride, and the subsequent debate was quite a lively one.

What is currently important is that I should accustom myself to reading whatever I write to an audience, so that I obtain an immediate feed back on whatever I'm trying to express. It's all good for my personal development. And the next steps will be for me to work out my political attitude, and to comprehend the manner in which I relate to the Universe - which I identify with God.

On Friday I went to have a drink with Steve. He tells me that he has become a Billy Grahame convert, and he regards him as some major kind of holy man. I found it difficult to converse with him on the subject, since my own inclination is to regard Billy Grahame as an evangelical wind-bag - suitable for an American bible-belt audience, but hardly someone to be inflicted upon a more sophisticated culture.

On Wednesday I called in for a drink with Steve A, taking Tim S along with me as a precautionary measure to forestall the anticipated efforts that he'd be making to convert me to Billy Grahame's fundamentalist conception of Christianity. But Tim soon took his leave - almost like someone who perceives that an amorous couple ought to be left alone in each other's company. I think there was some kindred look upon Steve's face which persuaded Tim to leave me alone with him. And as I feared, the talk soon veered towards religion.

It would now seem that Steve regards it as his personal duty to convert others to his newly affirmed faith. He declares that his current surrender to Christ's teachings is something entirely new in his life, and he feels that his entire attitude to life has been utterly transformed by going up to London and listening to what Billy Grahame has to say. I tried to explain to him that I have no wish to become a Christian. But his general line is that I am never going to know if Christianity works unless I first take the leap in faith to assume Christ's divinity on trust. And he urges me to restart the habit of praying to God, and then leave it to God to find the right method of proving his existence to me. But what Steve neglects to appreciate is that I don't see any attraction (or advantage) in believing in such a personal (even anthropomorphic) God. It's the Totality of the Universe which I feel should be worshipped - although it might well be that prayer could play some part in aligning a man's thought with mind at large within the Universe.

After he had exhausted his list of benefits that he promised would accrue to me from such a conversion, he came to the conclusion that I was one stage worse off than most others whom he had been trying to convert, in that I do not even accept it as being meaningful to describe Christ as the Son of God. Then he ran out of arguments to put to me, and just sat there in a silence which became almost painfully embarrassing. I feel kindly towards Steve because he himself has such an evident desire to become whole-heartedly good. Just before I finally took my leave of him, he came to the conclusion that he'd have to discuss my case with others - after which he'd come round and talk to me again on the subject. I foresee that I'll regard Billy Grahame as a real nuisance in my life before long.

I have in fact put Steve's advice into practice, without any too much faith in its efficacy. But I tried praying that [X] would turn up for Charlie's wedding. Praying in the sense of explaining myself to the Universe - trying to level with myself on what it was that I wanted, and why it was that this might be a useful contribution to the way life upon this Earth carries on. There's the idea that in seeing the matter clearly in my own head, that might increase the chances of [X] herself knowing intuitively (or telepathically) just how I feel, and then responding positively towards my thoughts.

Perhaps I should expand a little on how I think this process might operate, since I have been giving the question some deep thought of late. If it works at all, it has got to be on a basis which does not depend upon the existence of a transcendental Deity. I am supposing that each person's mind can subconsciously get to know the pattern of thought in another person's mind, without his conscious mind being aware of what it has done. I go on to suppose it to be within the bounds of possibility that a highly sensitive individual (who might alternatively be described as spiritual) could grasp the pattern of another person's mind from fragmented detail - a few comments overheard, or a single letter written to some friend.

But when two persons know each other as well as [X] and myself, then the amount we might have subconsciously grasped about the other's intentions are that much more easily discerned. So it's possible that [X] might come to know in this fashion, that I had actually been praying that she would attend - which would promptly become a significant psychological element within the forces which motivate her. I mean that if my personality is capable of addressing itself in all sincerity to whatever forces the Universe contains, in the form of a prayer that she would decide to attend, then she is liable to pick up on it subconsciously so that her conscious mind might formulate the intention that I was hoping for - in something rather similar perhaps, to a hypnotic response.

I am still uncertain whether I really believe that prayer might function in this fashion. It was just because I didn't wish to miss out on any opportunity to win [X] over to my persuasion, that I indulged in the experiment. I felt at the time that this was going to be the big test - since there was no special reason for [X] to attend this wedding. And if she had been wishing to avoid me, then she would certainly have refrained from going to it. So I was telling myself that, if she turned up, then it would be a firm signal that she had responded to my prayer, and that she would then find her way to patch up our relationship.

Viewed retrospectively however - and in the light of the fact that she did turn up - I no longer find myself attributing it to my prayer. And I well know that's unfair of me! But it does now seem far more natural that she should have turned up, whether I prayed or not. I even find myself saying that it would have been curious if she hadn't. Such is the ingratitude of man!

On Friday evening I had a long and somewhat strained conversation with Steve A on the subject of religion. He had invited me to come round after dinner, but he had no alcohol of any kind on offer, to ease the flow of the discussion. In fact I rather think he has now turned his back upon such luxuries. But I could sense how he had a whole load of persuasive arguments that he was wishing to make, just bursting for release from his tongue - although he couldn't quite bring himself to the point of actually starting. So I eventually solved his problem by enquiring how his rebirth as a Christian was progressing.

It seems as if nothing which I have said to date has been sufficient to persuade him that I am a lost cause, and he is evidently quite determined to convert me. But his arguments are all painfully simple - always relying in the last resort upon this appeal to faith, which I cannot offer him. The trouble is that he wants me to spend a whole lot of my free time, coming to view special films on religion with him, and then to argue my case for disbelief with some special people of his choice. But would he be willing to spend an equivalent portion of his free time arguing with the team that I might put into bat against him? I think not. But then I wouldn't want to waste his time, any more than I want to waste my own.

My whole purpose at present is to work out my own strictly personal understanding of religion, without using Christianity (or any other religion) as my starting point. It wouldn't do me any good at all, at this juncture in my life, to entangle my logic with all the nonsense and ambiguities put out in the name of any of the established religions. I have got to acquire a distance from all that, to enhance the clarity of my own line of thinking.

Later on we were joined by Roger Harrison who is another of these Billy Grahame converts. We all went on to the Grid together, with the two of them still convinced that I'd soon be joining their ranks. God knows why! I surely wasn't showing any signs of wavering. Anyway I eventually took on a bet with Roger (of half a bottle of gin to ten bottles of gin) that I shall not be converted to Christianity by the end of the Trinity term. It has been recorded in the Grid's betting book. I daresay that I've given him good odds, but I regard it as betting on a certainty. And it would be such a waste if they were to win, since Steve in any case has become virtually teetotal.

A rather interesting point cropped up this morning at my tutorial with Blake, which I was sharing with Colin Clark, who claimed that his aunt could remember Palmerston. I then claimed to be able to remember things at least from the age of three (and perhaps from a bit earlier), but this was greeted with much scepticism by them both. So I think it would be a good plan for me now to write down as many of these early memories as come back to my mind - in case I start to forget them from this age forwards.

I now seem able to put in longer periods of work than I could when I first came up to Oxford. On Monday I was working from 11.00 hrs to 22.00 hrs, with only a short respite for lunch. The distressing part is that my output is so incredibly small in comparison with the time spent upon it. And I remain uncertain whether to attribute this deficiency to a basic flaw within my intelligence. I seem totally incapable of making my brain function at a rapid pace. It might conceivably be explained in terms of a conscientiousness of disposition, which precludes the possibility of skipping lightly over unimportant detail. But I can't really accept that this is a sufficient explanation. I think I am up against some basic flaw in the ability of my mind to function at the pace required of it. I lack the tenacity of concentration. All manner of thoughts keep floating through my head at times when I am wanting to adopt a single-minded track.

I have been reading a book upon the indications of character within a person's handwriting, and I find it most interesting. But in some ways it's a masochistic business, since the book piles so much character abuse in relation to my own style of handwriting. About my signature for example, which might be said to include unnecessary flourishes, I am here told that this is the sign of someone who tries to make themselves out to be better than they are. That stings! But I rather like my signature, so I won't be changing it. There is another reference to the use of violet ink, which I had just adopted for use within my journal as it so happens. This was here interpreted as an eagerness to be fashionable. I'd hardly say that about myself, but I have promptly switched to the use of black ink - which apparently gives a more favourable impression! There are quite a number of additional insults to my personality which I have digested, but the graphologist's approach to the problem of discerning a person's character generally impresses me. I must read some other books upon the subject when they come my way.

I think I give the impression of being too self-centred. (Yet how else could I come to grips with the problems in self-analysis?) And they also observe that my sense of humour can seldom be tapped up there on the surface. But my initial thoughts on any subject do tend to be concerned with a reasoned endeavour to comprehend what is involved - even if I come round later to tickle my own humour on the absurdity, or incongruity, within the situation to the point when I eventually find it funny.

Quite apart from this however, I am by no means happy about the way my character is developing. Of the personality that I have become, I see two distinct sides to me - the one likeable, while the other one people find difficult. So let me now take a closer look at these two sides.

On the positive side, I still believe that I have the capacity in me to become a very nice person indeed. There are times when I am friendly and good-natured. And that side of me wishes for nothing better than a wonderfully happy marriage, and a secure family life. That side of me is as real as anything else about me, and if I could limit my attention to just that, I would confidently declare that I'd make someone a truly excellent husband. And I expect that these traits are responsible for so many people liking me as a person, and enjoying my company.

On the negative side however, I veer to the opposite extreme. I find myself feeling restless and depressed, seeing quite clearly that I'm not fitted to marriage with anyone at all, and that I could never stand for all the trifling irritations of family life. And at moments such as this, I know that the best thing for me to do is to isolate myself from others so that I cannot disturb their lives. I just need to be left to myself, to get on with my own things in my own way. Up to date these moods have not endured for very long. But if I were tied to someone in wedlock, then I have my fears that the restlessness in me might become quite chronic and destroy any sense of togetherness in the marriage.

The very fact that I believe so firmly that I shall ultimately succeed in life is perhaps a trait which others find distasteful - even when it is so essential to myself that I should continue feeling that way. If I am to be truthful on the matter, I do believe that I have the capacity for producing works of genius - although I am hesitant to describe in any detail just what that might mean. Or it might be a confidence that, when I've finally sorted out the way I think about everything, or how I envisage things pictorially, then the rest of the world will take cognizance of it and adjust their own thinking patterns accordingly. I know just how conceited this must sound. But it's only conceited if the future doesn't prove me right!

I feel sure that I am capable of great originality. Maybe my thoughts have a long way to evolve before I shall even be within striking distance of formulating what I aspire to be saying. But in writing this present thesis, I feel that I have made a start. And in completing it, I have gained the confidence to continue with the task of clarifying the way I think about all matters which impinge upon the development of a coherent attitude.

I am also confident that I can write good English in an attractively readable style. That is a talent which I have continued to develop since my latter years at Ludgrove. Maybe I'll require some further tuition along the road to success, but it doesn't occur to me to doubt that I'll eventually emerge as a writer of international distinction - while allowing me some teething problems perhaps, finding my best literary form.

The real question in my mind is whether the side of me, which powers this drive to succeed in life is truly compatible with that other side, which is well suited to furnish some woman a good husband. Could the happy family man ever become a good writer? Or could the restless author ever expect to find a woman to share his life within the full intimacy of marriage? When the restless side of me dominates, I am sometimes feeling an urge to be truly bloody-minded to everyone. Or at times when the family man re-emerges, I become too slothful and easy-going to sustain the drive to success. So all I can really do is to sit back and wait to see which of the two sides will finally come to the fore - at the expense of the other.

For the time being, I feel that I am experiencing the penalties which accrue to each side, without any of the advantages. And I can't blame people if they dislike what they see. I feel a dislike for myself sometimes - although I judge myself with lenience due to my awareness of the nice, kindly person whom I know lurks somewhere there in coexistence, and whom I suppose will finally manage to emerge in harness with that other side of me.

There was a poplar in the rich man's garden, surrounded by heavy elms and stout oaks. It was a garden which contained everything that a tree could require. The soil was nourishing, the flowers were radiant, and the gardeners hurried to and fro to satisfy their smallest needs.

But beneath the dark shadows cast by the elms and the oaks, the poplar felt restless and oppressed. He longed for the day when he would grow sufficiently tall and strong to push his head through the entwining branches above him, and see the whole garden from an exalted height. But it made him sad to think of the number of days he would have to wait before he could ever hope to touch their lowest leaves. And it depressed him to think that for many years to come, he would have to live alone in such a shaded corner of the garden.

As the months of the year began to slip away, he would forlornly gaze at all the different corners of the garden, and imagine to himself how different his life might be if he had been planted beside some of the younger trees, that were noticeable for their beauty. Down by the yew arbour, there was a cluster of young cherry trees. Their boughs were full of the most splendid blossoms he had ever seen. Yet somehow it seemed as if they were all blossom, and that beneath this display, there was but a flimsy wisp of a tree. Or there were the three rose trees growing beside the goldfish pond, from whom a scented fragrance sometimes drifted when the wind was in the right direction. But he could also see that their limbs were covered with sharp thorns, which would scratch the hand that tried to caress them. The poplar began to despair of finding any living plant, with whom he would enjoy to share his loneliness. Even the ivy, which twisted its arms so lovingly around the bole of the copper beach, was revealed in her true character by the choking sighs of her victim.

But the poplar felt certain that somewhere in this huge garden there must be one young tree, whose charm was untarnished by any baser element. So he raised himself to his full height, and cast his eyes to the very limits of the garden. And there beside the stream which glided between the two rush-decked banks, he noticed there was a solitary weeping willow. She was the most fragile and graceful tree he had ever seen. There was something in her thin limbs and fine leaves that reminded him of his own boughs and foliage. It was the first time that he had ever seen a tree with so much in common to himself. And he sadly wished that they had been planted together.

After he had watched her from afar for a very long time, he found that he was unable to eat his food, which the soft earth round his roots served up to him each day. And when the rich man noticed that his young poplar was wilting, and turning yellow, he called his gardener to him. Pointing at all the heavy elms and stout oaks, he said: "You have planted my poplar in the shadows cast by the other trees. Dig it up and plant it out there in the open, down by the river bank, beside the young weeping willow."

And as they dug him up, the poplar went to sleep for what seemed to be a very long time. And when he woke, he felt the fresh vigour of Spring within his veins; for the sap was rising within his body, to cover his arms with fresh green leaves. On his limbs and all around, he could hear the excited twitter of love birds fresh from Spain. And up above was a blue sky, floating on billowy clouds, which danced and revelled under the warming glow of the sun. It was the first time that he had ever really seen the sun. Before it had been a parched fragment, gleaming down between a mesh of matted leaves. But now he found that his limbs were stretching up in the full hot glare of a blazing ball of fire. And it filled him with a strange new excitement.

After he had basked himself for more than an hour, he suddenly thought to look around himself. And then it was that he remembered. He remembered how it was the year before, when he had stood wilting with a love-sick heart, beneath the boughs of the heavy elms and the stout oaks. And he remembered how the rich man had given orders that they should dig him up, and plant him in the open. And as he looked around, he saw the stream gliding between the two rush-decked banks, with every now and then a clump of primroses, springing congested from the soil. And there beside him was the weeping willow, trailing her thin graceful arms in the waters, which slipped slowly down with the stream.

It was quite a while before she appeared to notice him, for she was preoccupied with the attempt to catch a minnow, that swam daringly around the tips of her fingers. The poplar was shy and, although he wanted to speak to her, he did not dare to bend down and introduce himself. So he waited until she had finished her game, when she looked up to see him gazing at her. Then she smiled, and the poplar felt his heart give a bound of feverish excitement.

"I don't suppose you know who I am," he faltered.

"Yes I do," she replied. "You are the young poplar that was wilting under the big trees at the top of the garden. I watched the gardeners dig you up, and plant you beside me."

The poplar smiled, and was glad that she knew. He had often wondered whether she had noticed him from such a great distance. And it now excited him to think that perhaps she had pined for him in the same way that he had pined for her.

During the days that followed, he listened entranced to her ceaseless chatter, as she told him about all the different flowers that clustered around her feet during the summertime; and about the fishes that leapt from the water, always just beyond her reach; or about the birds that cooed and courted on her boughs. And in the moments when she paused for breath, the poplar would tell her about the depressing shadows where once he had grown, and the restless longing he used to feel, to thrust aside their branches and reach up for the sun. And she would sympathize with him, although she did not really understand.

"Are you happy now that you can see the sun?" she would ask.

The poplar would think for a very long time before answering, and then he would say: "Yes, I am happy. But now that I have learnt to look in the direction of the sun, I feel that it is hiding something from me. I now wish to see beyond the sun."

And the willow was sad, because it seemed to her that he missed so much that was beautiful in the world, when he stood for ever gazing in an upwards direction. But then she would laugh, and dare him to dip his fingers in the water. The poplar would smile sadly, and say that he was made too straight to enable him to do so.

In this manner the first days of Spring slipped quickly away, with their laughter rustling fresh from their new green leaves. But when the winds came gusting down to take them by surprise, she would give a frightened shiver and reach out to touch his hand. And on one of these occasions, he held her there for a moment, and gently kissed her in the breeze. She was silent for a while; then she rustled her leaves softly, and told him that she liked it. So after that he leant over, and kissed her whenever there was a breeze. It made the sap tingle in his veins, until he forgot all the grim shadows of his youth, and lived in the excitement of the present.

And when showers rose from out of nowhere, and temporarily hid the face of the sun, he would whisper as the raindrops fell that she was not to be afraid. He knew, he said, that the sun was stronger than the shower, and that very soon it would come peeping out, and drive the rain clouds from the sky. And she would whisper in return that she did not mind the showers, provided that he was beside her.

Then suddenly there came a day when the whole world seemed full of flowers, and butterflies with rainbow colours wafted on the scented air, and dragonflies skimmed the surface of the stream. The poplar gloried in the power of living, while he listened to the rippling laughter of the weeping willow, as she toyed the bubbling waters with her leaves. He felt now that he was a real part of creative existence, for it seemed to him that the whole garden radiated the essence of life. He felt life in the invigorating breezes of the sky; he felt it in the strident colours that were bursting from every patch of sombre green; he felt it in the expanding tissues of his own limbs. The strength of life had entered into his comprehension; and now that he had found it, he knew where to look for it in the future. And wherever he saw the weeping willow standing beside him, it made him happy to think that he had someone with whom he could share this new-found power.

When Spring gave way to Summer, the time came when the heavens flashed and shook the garden with their thunder. The poplar and the willow would stand drenching in the pouring rain, and would comfort each other, talking about the many different things they had seen before they had met. After a very little time, they had grown to know the smallest details about the lives they had each lived in the years gone by. For it now seemed as if they had known each other for all their lives. There were also times when the sun would blaze down on them for days on end. And on these occasions, they would become just a trifle irritable.

"Why don't you bend down and cool your fingers in the stream," the willow would ask.

"I prefer to stand," said the poplar, who knew that he could not bend even if he had wished. "But why is it that you never stand up and reach for the sun? The nearer to it one gets, the more one feels its power. And it will probably be leaving us for a while, after only a few more days."

"The sun stifles me," replied the willow. "Besides, it is there for everyone to see. I prefer to look where the sight is not so obvious to the eye. Look down here beneath the surface of this stream."

The poplar looked; but he saw the same as he had seen many times before. "I see the clean shining surface that reflects the image of the sun."

"You see only half of what there is to see," sighed the willow. "I see a waving forest of unexplored beauty, and fan-tailed fishes darting through the shadows of the stream."

"I do not understand how you manage to see such things," said the poplar.

"Ah! You do not understand," sighed the willow, and fell silent.

When the hot months gave way to the approach of Autumn, the restless birds would lodge the night on the poplar's boughs, and he would hear them making plans for their journey home. His heart would glow with excitement as he heard them speak of a blazing sun in the cloudless sky, and of the parched mountains rising up from sun-baked earth. But when he asked the weeping willow if her heart was pounding at the tales they told, she shrugged her shoulders with a slight shiver, and turned once more to toy with the waters of the stream.

Then the time arrived when the autumnal blasts began to tear the faded leaves from their tired grasp. It was at times such as these that it seemed indeed that the year was long. As the months began to slip away, the poplar would find the nights were damp and cold. When the dawn at last would break, he would discover that they were enveloped in a bank of fog; and after he wouldn't see the sun for several days on end. But when he looked at the weeping willow, he thought that she didn't appear to notice that the sun had gone. She would gaze for hours on end without moving, down into the quiet waters of the stream. He often wondered what she saw there. But he was unable to understand, because that was her world, and not his.

But one day, towards the approach of Winter, a small bird with flashing plumage rested in the boughs of the weeping willow. He was far brighter in colour than any of the discontented summer visitors, who had disappeared with the falling leaves. The willow awoke from her dreams, and asked him where he came from.

"I come from the island."

"What island is that?" asked the willow.

"The island where mayflies dance, where the trout fins flick the surface of the pool, where the toadstools sprout by the honeysuckle clumps, and where the otter cubs all play."

"But where is this island?" asked the willow, whose eyes had grown round with wonder.

"The island lies in a misty lake, fed by a thousand waterfalls."

"But how does one reach this lake?" asked the willow.

"One sails with the waters of the stream, through the woodland glade and the withy-bed, to the misty lake beyond."

Oh," said the willow, and gazed down at the cold waters drifting beneath her fingers. Then she turned and watched the kingfisher skim across the surface of the stream, back towards his island in the misty lake. Turning to the poplar, she spoke to him softly.

"You see, I was right."

"How were you right?" asked the poplar in surprise.

"There is this world of which we do not know, that exists beneath the surface of this other world."

The poplar shook his head sadly. "No world exists except that which we are capable of finding by further exploration."

"But did you not hear the small bird with the bright colours telling me about the strange world from which we came?"

"Yes," sighed the poplar. "But it was the same world as the one that we see."

The willow looked very sad, and gazed down once more into the cold waters. "You could not have heard the music in his words."

And the days slipped by until the frosts began to chill the sap within their veins, and they found that they were gradually slipping into the deep sleep of winter. One morning the poplar opened his eyes with difficulty, and looked down tenderly at the weeping willow. "The year is long," he whispered. "But soon, very soon, the Spring will come, and bring back the sun."

The weeping willow roused herself for a moment, and smiled wistfully. "Very soon," she whispered, "very soon...."

Then the icy hand of winter stole across the garden, painting frosted patterns on the dormant boughs of the trees, and covering the lawns in a white mantle of snow. But the poplar and the willow saw none of these things, since they were moulding the dreams which inspiration had placed within the scope of their imaginations.

But on the day when the sun returned, the poplar opened his eyes and looked around him. He rested them for a moment on the weeping willow, and inhaled all the fresh beauty of her new foliage. "I love you," he whispered, caressing her arms in a slight breeze.

After a moment she stirred in her sleep, and gradually came to life. He watched her fondly as she looked around, and waited for her to notice his presence. But she had that wistful far-off look in her eye, that he had noticed towards the end of the last year.

"What thoughts are you thinking?" he asked.

She was silent for a while; then she turned and smiled, shaking her head sadly at the same time.

"I was thinking of a dream I dreamt this winter's night. It was a dream that had no words. But I saw an island in a misty lake, with a thousand waterfalls. And the mayflies danced, and the fishes swam, and the otter cubs all played. And I saw a nook in the island's bank, where the earth and the water met. And I dreamt that my roots clung tight in the nook, and buried themselves deep."

The poplar sighed and rustled his leaves, but he said not a word, because she spoke of a world that he knew not. It made him sad to think that she had dreamt this dream, when he had hoped that she had been dreaming about himself. His own dreams had been exclusively about her, and their future life together. But he realized that her thoughts ran on very different paths to his own. So he smiled, and changed the subject by asking her is she remembered the hot rays of the sun.

"Yes," she replied after a long pause. "Yes, I remember them too."

But the poplar noticed that there was no enthusiasm in the tone of her voice. And since he could not understand the reason, he left her to her thoughts.

Spring was slow in coming to the garden that year. Winter left its traces long after its season had departed, and the rain often turned into cold showers of sleet.

It was after the night of a sudden storm, when the earth had been churned into mud, and the stream raced more fretfully against its banks than was its normal habit. The poplar awoke to hear the willow singing a sad and wistful melody quietly to herself. She appeared to be leaning far out, and examining her reflection in the water.

"I love you," whispered the poplar.

"I love you too," whispered the willow, and gazed sadly down the stream.

"Will you love me for ever?" asked the poplar.

"For ever," she replied, and sighed as she said so.

And when the day had advanced, and the sun had at last managed to break through the clouds, bathing the world in its warm light, the willow gave a sudden frightened cry. The poplar looked to see that the bank had slipped, and the willow leant at a steep angle over the water.

"I love you; forgive me," she whispered, reaching out her arms and giving him a soft caress with the tips of her fingers.

"But where are you going?" the poplar cried.

"I go with the waters of the stream to the misty lake beyond."

"But stay," cried the poplar in dismay. "I love you. Stay and share with me the power of the sun."

"I love you too, but I cannot stay," sighed the willow, slipping still further down the bank.

"I love you," cried the poplar, rustling his leaves and straining to touch the arms that were now out of reach. "Come back, I need you."

"I'll always love you," whispered the willow as she slid gently into the water, and started to drift down with the stream.

"Wait!" cried the poplar. "Share with me the sun!"

"I sail with the waters," came the distant voice of the weeping willow.

As the poplar watched her sail away, he noticed how straight and tall she seemed to be, with her graceful arms stretched out in the water. And at the sight of it, for the first time in his life, he bent his boughs and began to weep. And even when at last she had drifted out of sight beyond the bend in the river, he scattered dewdrops on the water, that bore her messages of no return.