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Home Sunday afternoon Sep 21st 1873 My cigarette has gone out and any happy thoughts curl off in the last cloud of blue smoke as I turn over the pages of my journal. I have just been reading a few pages back my remark made a year ago that "the summer had been the happiest one I ever spent." I will not recall the statement as it was then written for undoubtedly it was true, yet the pleasure of that year has been far exceeded by the more quiet therefore more real- enjoyment of this past two months. I can not think that my life will go on at this cumulative ratio of pleasure and I am forced to believe that I can never pass another so enjoyable a season, I am not misguided by any sentimental view but by a practical outlook [[strikethrough]] for [[/strikethrough]] of what my future life must be to be sure my labors are a pleasure to me yet it is overshadowed by an earnestness of purpose that dissipates that light sunshine of boyish enjoyment so forgetful of the sterner realities of life. I will not particularize the happy hours I have passed this summer for if they ever terminate favorably I shall then have no difficulty in recalling them, if not - better then that they were entirely forgotten. Charlie has just been in my room sitting on the bed talking - how many good fellowship chats we have had together down here in the country, our family can certainly be characterized by one thing and that is its love for its members, and now as the time draws near for me to leave my pleasant home and alone to start out into the world and buffet with it I seem to be drawn closer to the fireside around which since the fire we have so often drawn our chairs in happy union_ _