_July 9th._ Yesterday Caro wheeled me out to the line of locusts, which cuts this plateau in half and divides the Boss’s grounds from his neighbor’s. A song sparrow came to call at once, a dear little fellow, all streaks and music. They sing here all day long—they and the winter wrens. A flicker has a clamorous brood in the tallest locust; they cry every moment, except when their wail is gagged by a worm. Their parents toil incessantly, but I should think their nerves would be on edge. The bluebird mothers, too, are hard at work, for there are dozens of bluebird babies to feed, and bluebird fathers never turn a wing or lend a bill to their upbringing. The babies are cunning, speckled things, their big round eyes ringed with white, giving them an expression of child-like wonder. This afternoon I am out on my end of the porch, in the hammock. Caro has gone with Hazel-eyes and a party of young folks on an expedition to Bare Rock—a great shelf of granite which juts out near the top of the mountain to the north of us, and from which there is a wonderful view. The Madam is entertaining visitors on the other side of the porch, and I am finding the solitude I need a constant temptation to Grumpyish thoughts. When one wants to bog down, there are always such unassailable reasons for doing it! I have faced Grumpy down and out about the pain. And I’ve done fairly well about the idleness; that isn’t a losing fight, at least. But I’m just bowled over about the children. And it isn’t altogether that they’re suffering, though that hurts. It’s because they’re suffering away from me, and I can’t do anything until they choose to take me into their confidence. I’ve been lying here thinking how Grumpy must be enjoying my back-sliding till I’ve made up my mind to fight him to a finish on this also. They have a right to their secrets and to their own lives; it’s the right and natural way. I never repaid Great-aunt Letitia’s love to her, any more than she repaid her mother’s. You don’t pay love back; you pay it forward. The great-aunts paid their love-debt, not to their mother, but to me; and I’ve paid what I owed them to David and Caro; and Caro and David won’t pay to me—they can’t; they’ll pay it to children yet unborn. Why can’t I accept the law, and be glad? It’s trying to grab what isn’t one’s share that makes all the trouble in life, anyway. I’ve always said the most secure possession was the one carried in an open handle and free to fly at a breath: I’ll carry the children that way now. And for amusement, there are still the birds. * * * * *