A glorious bright day here already, even at seven a.m. Not a speck of haze against the blue, the mourning doves are peacefully mourning, and I will be planting beans.

Yesterday evening Paul attended the elementary school semiformal dance. He spent much time preparing, and eventually emerged from his room decked out like a svelte gangster in a black suit and pinstriped fedora. He wanted a boutonniere, so I invented a little one out of white lilac and fern. But three hours later, when he returned home, his shirt tail was yanked out, his hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, his flower was limp, and he looked like a sixth-grade boy who'd been shooting hoops all afternoon in church clothes. I'm assuming this meant that he had fun, though I would be the last person to hear about any actual dancing-with-girls.

And now, on this glorious morning, my tiny house is filled with sleeping boys, and only I am awake, drinking all the coffee, and thinking about Wordsworth, though I am not doing anything about him. I am letting him sit over there on his shelf and sleep too. I might wake him up; but then again, if I did he might be more trouble than he's worth . . . at least at the moment. All I'm saying is that I bet he was the kind of man who didn't make his own breakfast. And I have nothing against making his breakfast, but it's only fair that he should have to wait around till I feel like slicing the bread.