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I often compare myself to that tree.

I am the youngest of a family
of eight, my mother is living
and this is her birthday, 92 years
old; one by one they have left us:
aside from mother I have no
nearer relative than cousins.
Twenty years ago my only sister
died, this so affected mother with
her other afflictions that she has
been partially insane. For ten
years I have scarcely left her,
and for the last three, have
not felt safe to leave her for
an hour, and she wants me
right with her all the time, night
and day.

Shut in, as I am, and deprived
of all most everything that makes life
pleasant, do you wonder that I long
for sympathy? O that my heart is

stired [sic] when I read of what others
are doing. I have had glimpses
of what life might be, and many
previous friends, but they are gone,
and have left me only the memory
of what they were to me; and today
I know the full meaning of that
word "I love."

My one enjoyment is my garden.
I am passionately fond of flowers - of
music - and everything beautiful in
Nature, and Art.

When I read of so many places of interest
that I would like to visit, I long for
wings or wealth to bridge the distance,
but would the eye ever be satisfied with
seeing or the ear with hearing?

Books are my most enjoyable companion,
they help me to pass so many weary
hours, and turn my thoughts away
from self. Clouds of gloom often