[Campton—Monday, 18 June 1866]

Monday. Jamie went to town. Rain pouring. Lucy reading Shakspeare’s sonnets in her room, I hear.

Rain, rain, walked alone at night to the Post office, the roads were heavy with water, the streams swollen to pigmy Niagaras, the sky aglow with tinted fleecy clouds and the hills still and cloud capped. The mail did not come up—I learned this part way up but the walk was its own reward. Met the young teacher, Miss Littlefield, she was aglow herself with the sunset. She grasped my hand, warm with excitement over the wild beauty as if asking sympathy.


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