[Campton—Saturday, 4 July 1868]
July 4th Hot, hot, at the Willey Farm still. The trees stand motionless, while grass and clover grow apace. We have had unrivalled cloud scenery. J. could do nothing yesterday afternoon but watch the sky.
To our horror boarders arrived last night—no matter we can leave today and indeed shall find it better to do so at any rate. J. made me laugh this morning (it was far too hot to laugh) by telling me that Dickens said of Gray the poet “No man ever walked down to posterity with so small a book under his arm.”
How like him it is—and with Js manner too, I could see him.
We shall think often and often of the voice of yonder thrush, of the calm, and of these sweet days. Even the heat seems to add to the separateness of our lives here.
