Oh my, Diary, I believe that Paradise will be one eternal Springtime. Isn’t it strange how the coming of Spring never fails to impress one with its beauty — and how soon one forgets the loveliness of the Spring — therefore, it is always new and ever more beautiful than the year before.
I’ve just been around in the back yard to comfort the little flowers which the hail abused — but they still lift their golden heads, although they are heavy with water. The hyacinths smell so heavenly. The lilac bushes are just awakening and there are tiny green buds and leaves all over them. Oh please, let the lilacs be beautiful this Spring — we didn’t have any last year. I also visited George’s back yard to see the white blossoms of the plum trees. It has changed so, Diary, just the back yard — it is so different. The main thing, of course, is the absence of the flight of back steps with its “lookout” landing; and then one of “our” trees has been almost cut to the ground — the grape vines are all gone from the arbor and it doesn’t seem a bit like the same yard in which we spent so many happy hours. I felt so old then and so — well, like a stranger almost. It hurt to think that it’s all gone now — all changed and different.
Tomorrow is April the fifth. I don’t know whether I’m frightened or not — I suppose it’s very silly, but it just started — really I couldn’t help it. And yet I have a feeling now that it can’t happen just yet — not for a while. I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry — sometimes I can’t understand my own self!