Thursday, June 21, 1883 The longest day of all the year and an ideal day it has been, cool and sweet with magnificent skies such as I ought to be painting. But somehow all my work from nature utterly discourages me. I went to my studio after breakfast and painted a vase of roses which stood in the dining room and looked so pretty. I never do succeed with flowers but I thought I might do better with this. I succeeded only tolerably--could not get the color and while it looked pretty well it had not the freshness of nature. After dinner I took a walk. Downing went with me a part of the way and returned. We stopped at the cemetery to look at the morning glory plants I set out on Maurices grave. They had wilted but a very little and soon I think will cover the bare mound. Downing went with me to the end of the cemetery and returned. The laurels are in full bloom out on the Common. I went out above the tunnel and walked up the track to the cemetery and home. The skies very fine and the landscape rich and shadowy. I felt melancholy sad that the years are going by and I seem to accomplish so little. I am happy when at work if my work is tolerably successful, but so much time seems wasted here at home and I feel in so many ways hampered and bound that I get very depressed over it. A letter from Eastman Johnson. He too has his anxieties and sees often the sad side of life.
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