Sunday, Mar 21, 1880 My father is 80 years old today. I wish I could be sure my 80th birth day would be surrounded by as satisfactory conditions as his. Here is a sketch of him from the Freeman, and this poem cut from the Leader he read today sitting in the parlor [newspaper clipping attached]. It seems to be I shall always remember him sitting there reading it. I wrote to Booth and all day I sighed and secretly grieved over the tender memories of dear Gertrude. I think of her constantly here at home. In New York in the midst of the perplexing duties of hanging the pictures, a thought of her comes to me and in a moment I forget all the world beside. It seems to me I cannot go on without her.
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