Saturday, August 2, 1873- I spent most of the morning writing to Gussie and did not finish my letter having somehow failed to give the real impression of how contented I have been this summer by reason of speaking of some things, as for instance Maurices deflection, since Grants visit. I shall try to add a brighter page tomorrow. After dinner I proposed to Bowyer who had been busy with his painting all the morning to go out fishing in his boat. He was pleased with the idea and we walked down to Steep Rocks through a fearful heat. There seemed not a breath of air. When we came to the top of Steep Rocks road the river lay before us in perfect repose reflecting the shores and the masses of clouds and the day boat which slipped lightly above it. We rowed up to Brighams mill and anchored under the grateful shadow of the ice house and fished faithfully for three hours with no other result than to saturate ourselves with the odor of the salt mackerel we took along for bait. But the river was beautiful. The rich soft shadows of the abundant clouds fell across the landscape and the water had that soft silvery lustre that just a hint of movement imparts to it, such as Kensett used to lend to some of his Newport pictures. The day reminded me continually of Kensett. Girard came up by the Powell for his annual fortnight vacation. I have just finished [?]. I dont think I am as fond of verse as I used to be but I was charmed with this delightful story. Now I have commenced Howells "Chance Acquaintance" fragments of which I have read, but strangely I have no desire to paint, or rather I begin to feel the need of going somewhere where I can paint.