A Diary of My Younger Years - The Autobiography of Ivan Hall

Spring 1894

May 5, 1894

I am working in the brickyard at Nebo. It is warm and dusty -- fine weather for making brick. I haven't had much of importance to write, so I will now make an attempt to write a little.

COMPOSITION ON SPRINGTIME

A red bird is twittering a musical note of delight afar off in the green woods, and the kingfisher can be heard as he chatters up and down the little creek in search of his prey. It is the fifth day of May, and the forest trees have all turned green--the leaves are almost grown. Warm showers of rain make the grass and leaves look as bright and fresh as a new pin. A brown thrush is singing in a peach tree by the garden. The little brook, which has been swollen by the recent showers of rain, is surging merrily along in the hollow, here and there forming great foamy whirlpools. The sun has now set, and the shades of dusk are approaching. I hear a cowbell tinkling afar off. The bullbat screeches as he wheels in the air and then dashes off after a crowd of gnats. Then there come three or four more of his kind, skimming along in full chase, not stopping to rest for a moment in their never-tiring circuit through the air. Then they are gone; a thin mist of clouds is floating over, through which the moon is shining dimly. The whippoorwill can be heard telling the same sad old story, repeating it over and over, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will. Reader, did you ever hear it -- the song of the whippoorwill in the evening?

I am now having but little time to write in my diary, and I don't expect to write much more, but I had promised to keep a diary of my life until I was 17 years of age. I am now 17 and I think in one more year I will have plenty to do besides write a history.