Tuesday, June 17, 1890 Sara and I had to get our own breakfast this morning as well as our dinner this noon. I feel as though we were cast away on a desert island. My cold makes me ill and I have a feeling of discouragement. We dont know where to turn to look for a servant as the surplus has gone out to the mountains and it seems quite probable that we will not easily get one. Sara is ironing. I have set Tom to picking the sour cherries over at my place, but they rot badly as do all the rest. The trees are old and I mean to have most of them cut down as we get nothing from them and they only serve as an attraction for marauding boys. Sara had a note from Mary yesterday and I wrote her today. It is a pretty warm day but with a good breeze.
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