then with a rush comes back the sun from the cloud’s livid edge – the wind dies away – warmth pervades all space –
     Oh beauty!  Why cannot such moments come oftener and last longer?
                                                                     Apr. 13, 1933–
     To Gowanda –
     Start new painting of canyon looking westward which gives me great pleasure – work until midafternoon when the sunlight was too changed.  A mist comes over the western sky, with a dense pearl gray down low.
                                                                     Apr. 14, 1933–
     Around home all day – a foreboding of rain, tho it does not come-
                                                                      Aug. 7, 1933–
     On the morning of June 23 at7:30 Mother died, just nine days after Frances.  Evening of fading hope had merged into a night of black despair.  At four o’clock, as I sat holding her hand and wrist in which the pulse was steadily growing weaker, all the robins seemed to go mad with singing at the same moment, a little later a red-bird came and sang from a wire out front clear and strong –
     It is Sunday evening.  We are standing in the cemetery of the newly disturbed ground.  Some friend has arranged the flowers on both graves, a thought that is like the pressure of a hand.  The mournful church bells that used in childhood to frighten me, have died away into silence, and a soft gentle rain begins to fall.
     They are gone; and even now, the vain regrets outweigh the pleasant memories.