Monday, July 14, 1884 My 56th birth day. A year ago my mother was with us and told me how well she remembered fifty five years ago that day. Poor Maurice had been in his grave but a month, and now Gussie and my mother have gone. It is a trite remark that life is fleeting, but the past year seems marvelously short. I try not to think how my life is going and how soon I will be an old man but on anniversaries like this I cannot help it, or help wondering what changes the coming year will bring. My father, Girard, Mary and I attended Will Kenyons funeral this afternoon. It has been a beautiful day, something like a year ago only with a strong North wind. This morning I fixed the gate on the side hill which had got unhinged and afterwards did some work to my sketching box. What a lovely day for sketching. So cool and such a rich sparkling air. I could distinguish clearings in the Highlands this forenoon. I think of dear Gertrude every day and in going about the place and always over at our little house she is constantly in my thought. What a sweet memory and what an interest to my life is every thought of her. I measure all lovely women by her high standard and they all come short of her.
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