She was in a cross mood one day, when she discovered me writing.
Schillie.—"What can you be doing, June?"
Mother (hesitating a little).—"I am writing a journal."
Schillie.—"Now, pray, tell me for what purpose."
Mother.—"It will be interesting to us to recur to some day; or it will serve to enlighten our own descendants, should we never leave this place."
Schillie.—"Well, I could not think you would be so absurd. Who wants to recall this horrible time; or what possible interest can you put into the details of such a life as ours."
Mother.—"I grant it's very difficult, but you are at liberty to look at it."
Schillie (reading).—"Ha! a thunderstorm (very interesting). Another (truly pathetic). Felix ill (the dear pet, how sorry his grandchildren will be to hear it). Gatty in mischief (when is she ever out of it?) Schillie worked the most of all (and what has she got to do besides?) Very merry tea (what a fib, when we have had no tea this month). Sybil so amiable (yes, quite mawkishly so). Our dear captain (good me! what a monody). The good Smart (perfect epitaphs over them all, pity they are not in rhyme). Well, June, of all the nonsense I ever read your journal seems the crown thereof."
Mother.—"I don't pretend to write anything amusing, for how can I with so few incidents; only I wished to keep a sort of journal."
Schillie.—"It seems to me nothing but about the children, how they were naughty and how they got good again. Why don't you write the geological structure of the island, the botanical history, and a whole account of the birds and beasts."