Back of a small pine whose branches reach the ground, and sitting in a velvety carpet of moss & short grass, with skirts carefully tucked around me lest they crush the violets which bloom everywhere - I must add some lines to my journal. It almost seems worldly to even think of journals in such a worshipful place. The stillness is broken only by the rippling musical babblings of the brook, and a far away bird call. The afternoon is perfect (My! heart stood still for a moment then as a huge crow came so near that it seemed like some large animal in the bushes!) I started from Mrs. Prosser's about 2, and after visiting with Jack, & taking his horses picture, I came down across the old farm. I sat on a log up in the pasture enjoying a concert by a big bob-o-link, he was sitting where mother used to like to hear them sing. In other respects the old place has changed. Barns and trees grown old & bent like old people. I had a long visit with Mrs. Bancroft, then came over here to drink in the beauty & poetry of the place. I'd like to fall asleep like Rip van Winkle - for it seems as though fairies must visit the place. It's drowsy too like "Sleepy Hollow" but I cannot sleep if I call at Beatty's this afternoon. I'm pressing some flowers for "keep sakes." I found the very same violets that greeted me 15 years ago I couldn't pick them - I could have stooped down to kiss them as one greets an old time friend.
