[Manchester—Sunday, 3 September 1871]

Sunday. We have been reading the new poet Joaquin Miller on the powder house hill this morning where the sun came down with midsummer warmth. The silent birds hopped about among the pine branches and we read and an occasional cicada was heard in the tree-top. We glowed with the fervor of the new poet so in harmony with the glory of the day. Our good pastor and his wife had gone to Gloucester to preach. They found the bay filled with boats searching for the body of a drowned child.

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