Monday, June 11, 1888 A changeful day of threatening rain in the morning and a strong wind in the afternoon. There have been fine skies and I felt I ought to have tried to get something of them but they changed so rapidly I was discouraged from undertaking it. Went down town this morning--have worked a little in the garden, and so another day has gone. I feel almost as though I am wasting them, I accomplish so little. I have resumed my health exercises. George Van Deusen was found dead in the upper part of his store, presumably from heart disease. I am writing over in the studio at our little house. The [fringe?] tree is in blossom--the one Mrs Wheeler gave Gertrude and the "Brown Thrasher" is singing as he or his forefathers used to sing when we lived here. Oh! how many things to remind me of the dear lost days.