After I got into bunk last night and noticed the moonlight shining brightly through the window, it occurred to me that it might be possible to read by it – whereat I hawked your letters out, getting through the whole lot in about half an hour. Just finished tea which we had to the accompaniment of the old Church bell chiming for the Harvest Festival, and what a glorious night for it, with the full moon peering down through the elms and limes! J & I did sketches, showing rows of pollard willows in the foreground. That is an ‘osier bed and there is a basket-making establishment there.
I made myself disliked by pushing my hat back and blundering off over hill and dale reading your letters out in the good old fresh air. By the time I had finished them, and come back to the (English) world, we were somewhere within reach of the road to Odiham. Having glutted ourselves with art, the inner man began to assert himself, so we bethought ourselves where might be the nearest refectory and lo! Mrs. Crondall’s was it, so “Here we are, here we are, here we are again!”.
[Sketch by Lincoln Lee, Osier bed, September 1917]