ebe W. Couzins, and
Arethusa Forbes, returning from a Boston convention, all by chance met
under my roof. We had a very merry time talking over the incidents of
the convention, Boston proprieties, and the general situation. As I gave
them many early reminiscences, they asked if I had kept a diary. "No," I
said, "not a pen scratch of the past have I except what might be
gathered from many family letters." They urged me to begin a diary at
once; so I promised I would on my coming birthday.

My great grief that day was that we were putting in a new range, and had
made no preparations for dinner. This completely upset the presiding
genius of my culinary department, as she could not give us the bounteous
feast she knew was expected on such occasions. I, as usual, when there
was any lack in the viands, tried to be as brilliant as possible in
conversation; discussing Nirvana, Karma, reincarnation, and thus turning
attention from the evanescent things of earth to the joys of a life to
come,--not an easy feat to perform with strong-minded women,--but, in
parting, they seemed happy and refreshed, and all promised to come
again.

But we shall never meet there again, as the old, familiar oaks and the
majestic chestnut trees have passed into other hands. Strange lovers now
whisper their vows of faith and trust under the tree where a most
charming wedding ceremony--that of my daughter Margaret--was solemnized
one bright October day. All Nature seemed to do her utmost to heighten
the beauty of the occasion. The verdure was brilliant with autumnal
tints, the hazy noonday sun lent a peculiar softness to every
shadow--even the birds and insects were hushed to silence. As the
wedding march rose soft and clear, two stately ushers led the way; then
a group of Vassar classmates, gayly decked in silks of different colors,
followed by the bride and groom. An immense Saint Bernard dog, on his
own account brought up the rear, keeping time with measured tread. He
took his seat in full view, watching, alternately, the officiating
clergyman, the bride and groom, and guests, as if to say: "What does
all this mean?" No one behaved with more propriety and no one looked
more radiant than he, with a ray of sunlight on his beautiful coat of
long hair, his bright brass collar, and his wonderful head. Bruno did
not live to see the old home broken up, but sleeps peacefully there,
under the chestnut trees, and fills a large place in many of our
pleasant me