Toward the latter part of the afternoon I took time out to sit down and look at the northeast sky. Never have I seen the sky such an intense deep blue, (or is it that I have never truly observed it?)
I just finished reading “Ninety-Three.” It seems I was unconsciously waiting for Hugo at this time. Overwhelmed by the book, I sat exalted...
[In Painting as much idea of the immensity of the sky can be given by showing a very small area as by showing a huge amount.]
I dreamed aloud of buying the place adding to the buildings, and spending our declining days here – Bertha went along with me in my impractical fantasies.
Secretly I rejoiced that there was still a section of country so near me that was beyond the “blighting” influence of improvement. Or, rather I was torn between conflicting emotions – I pitied the inhabitants, but my artist’s soul rejoiced at what was an artistic perfection in horror.
While sitting here, I noticed a large yellow [orb-weaver]. Desiring to see to what extent he would defend himself I took a twig & commenced tapping him.
This is the second night that the cricket chorus has pulsated. It stirs up in me longings that are insatiable for they are [inexpressible].