[Campton—Friday, 14 June 1867]
Friday another glorious day but a thought warmer than yesterday and clearer, so clear that we fancied signs of rains. We walked to the brookside on the hill in the morning and in the afternoon drove to the Kenistons intending to ask for their daughter and go up their hill with her as we did last year. We reached the house Mrs Keniston came out as usual to welcome us and after greetings duly exchanged we said gayly “and how is your daughter Mrs Keniston we thought we would ask her to go on this hill with us”—“Both my daughters are dead” the poor woman answered, as she wrung her hands & spoke with a forced calmness, “both died last winter!” We climbed the hill alone therefore, but I fancied the sprightly feet of the girl who ran so lightly before us on our very last visit and the exquisite beauty of the scene acquired a sadder aspect to our eyes. A lonely elevated hill-top is a lonely weird place at best. Few feet ever tread over it. The squirel and smaller animals hardly know how to dread a human visitant and allow you to take a long peep at them for the sake of the pleasure of returning the compliment. The air was fragrant with a tender growth of Pennyroyal which we trod upon in our ascent and young birches waved their silent welcome, but near the top ravaging storms lent a fiercer aspect to the scene,—trees wrenched off and lying prostrate or knarled and bent by the winds, or ragged pitch pines and spruces giving but sad music to the brilliant beauty of the afternoon. In strange contrast to this and a little back of the summit stood a noble grove of maple trees—the sugar maple looking as fair and beautiful and untouched by storm or wind as if sheltered in a lowland park.
