
A small party of us, Dr. Sippi (the Bursar of the asylum) Wm Gurd (the inventor) John Nesbit (partner with Gurd & self in the meter &
motor) Fred. Kittermaster (a lawyer, nephew of Mrs Bucke's &
good friend of mine) and one of my little boys drove yesterday to Delaware (15 ms.)
had dinner and spent some hours with a Mr Gibson, stockbreeder there, and got back
home at 9:45 P.M. It was a charming day—ripe grain in the fields—apples
hanging thick in the
orchards—clouds diving overhead—long swells of hill & valley often a
prospect of several miles ahead or at one side or other of the road—a good team, free
travelers—altogether a grand day—today up to my eyes in work again, but
feel like it and enjoy it—next month the annual report once more (it seems one
annual report fairly treads on the heels of the one in advance of it) such is life,
but what matter—if time flies—(as it does) is there not plenty of it?
"We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, there are trillions
ahead and trillions ahead of them" so what matter?