Saturday morning is here in all of its late summer glory, and we shall go to the garden today to work. There is an acre of grass to mow, a woefully neglected bed to weed, and a stillness in the woods that delights with its cool breezes. If you come, too, we shall pause for a glass of lemonade in its shade and I shall recall for you the words of Mr. Frost.
There
was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And
that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What
was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps
it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something,
perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And
that was why it whispered and did not speak.
Miss Bennett: "Books— oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings." 
"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. . ."
"Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. . . For you alone, I think and plan. "
"My beloved is mine and I am his." ~ Song of Solomon
