George came back early on Thursday, time enough for me to take my first airing with him. The park looks so green and fresh; it would be a nice place in England, where one could go out in daylight. The birds affect a little singing at this time of the year, a wretched confused ramage, without any keynote, and incoherent to the last degree, but still the attempt is commendable and spring-like; and there is a cuckoo who at this season tries to talk: he says Cuck—and can’t say Coo. However, he is very good to speak any English.
The bachelors of Barrackpore gave a ball last night, and we lent them the Flagstaff Bungalow, thinking we should be at Calcutta, but, as we have been kept here, George thought it would be civil to go.
I never mentioned that the ‘Catherine’ at last came in on Thursday with quantities more letters. I do not think it signifies the least the letters coming out of their turns; we read them just as much, and it is surprising how unlike they are to each other, considering that you are all writing about the same events; but the little bits of private family history always tell
