All but the last ten years are now given away. The physical fatigue,
though still pleasant, is quite overwhelming. I am not troubled by the
weeds in my garden patch--merely a different sort of flowers where I
had planned something else. An hour ago she brought me the seed of a
blown dandelion, to show me how lovely it was. I don't suppose I had
ever noticed. I hope whoever takes over this place will bring it back
to farming; they say the ten acres below the house used to be good
potato land, nice early ground.
It is delightful to sit in the sun, as if I were old.
After thumbing over earlier entries in this journal, I see I have often
felt quite bitter toward my own kind. I deduce that I must have been
a lonely man, with much of the loneliness self-imposed. A great part
of my bitterness must have been no more than one ugly by-product of a
life spent too much apart. Some of it doubtless came from objective
causes, yet I don't believe I ever had more cause than any moderately
intelligent man who would like to see his world a pleasanter place than
it has been. My angel tells me that the scar on my back is due to an
injury received in some early stage of the war that still goes on. That
could have soured me, perhaps. It's all right; it's in the record.
She is racing with a hummingbird--holding back, I think, to give the
swift little green fluff a break.
* * * * *
Another note for you, Lester. I have already indicated my ring is
to be yours. I don't want to tell you what I have discovered of its
properties, for fear it might not give you the same pleasure and
interest that it has given me. Of course, like any spot of shifting
light and color, it is an aid to self-hypnosis. It is more, much more
than that, but--find out for yourself, at some time when you are a
little protected from everyday distractions.