Thursday I wrote to Gussie and to Bayard Taylor. Poor Gussie is in the midst of great anxieties. Joe and Laura are both sick and she is evidently alarmed about Joe. I have been at work making some pedestals for the flower vases. Yesterday Gertrude and I took a lovely ride, crossing the ferry at South Rondout and going down the river as far as Pells, and returning by the river road. I feel the old melancholy upon me as soon as I get home. I think the difficulty of living and the anxieties about meeting our engagements are responsible for my unhappiness. I sometimes wonder how I am going to pass the summer. Today is a melancholy sort of a day, the sun obscured by vapor. I have thought a great deal about Mr. Bryant. He was buried yesterday at Roslyn and it was a perfect June day, just such an one as he wished for in one of his poems, on which to be buried. I can hardly realize that he is dead his life is so strongly impressed upon this age and time. Wrote to Julia Bryant, To Mr. Bachelder and to Whittredge.
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