Sunday, June 3, 1888 I sat on the front porch a while as no one was stirring. The foliage was in perfection and the Guilder was in full bloom. They recalled my mother and all the spring freshness and beauty was tinged with a gentle melancholy for I thought of all those who not so long ago rejoiced in it with me, so that the silence of this fresh morning was peopled with tender memories of dear Gertrude, my father and mother, of Maurice and Gussie so little while ago a part of my daily life, now utterly silent, unresponsive--gone. The melancholy days to me are the June days. Bayard Taylor once told me it was the same with him--that in the full tide of summer he was oppressed with a despondent, homesick despair that he felt at no other time. How strange that the sadness of life is often suggested to us when we should be most happy and that a flash of memory can awake joy or sadness wherever we may be. Bowyer who is here let me in after a time. Julia Donaldson is here occupying my room. She came a week ago yesterday. Marion also is here. I went down into the garden. My flowers have grown but little and all the garden is very backward as the weather here has been cold and rainy.
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