illuminate at your leisure.

Consequently, write what you can, and let it stand with all its blots,
errors, and nonsense. And be careful, when you are five years older, not
to go through the diary with eraser and scissors; for, if you live still
another five years, nothing will interest you more than this diary with
all its defects.

I find after having written many diaries of many forms, that I have now
to regret I did not at first choose some particular size, say
"letter-size," and so have had all my diaries uniform. I will never
again use "onion-skin," which is too thin, nor any odd-shaped, figured,
cheap, or colored paper. I do not like those large printed diaries which
give you just a page or half-page a day, nor a paper whose ruling shows
conspicuously.

I like best when at home to write in a blank book; and when I go off on
a summer vacation I leave that diary safely at home, and take a
portfolio with some sheets of blank paper upon which to write the diary,
and mail them as fast as written. These answer for letters to the
friends at home, and save writing any more to them. They also, when
bound, form a diary exclusively of travels. When I return I write an
epitome in the home-diary, and thus prevent a break of dates in that
book. The paper for the diary of travels is strong, but rather thin and
white. I buy enough of it at once to make a volume, and thus have the
diary sheets uniform.

I am quite sure that you will do well to write a diary of your summer
vacation, upon the plan just named, whether you keep one at home or not.
Try to do it well, but do not undertake too much. Write facts such as
what you saw, heard, did, and failed to do; but do not try to write
poetry or fine writing of any kind. Mention what kind of weather; but do
not attempt a meteorological record unless you have a special liking for
that science. If you camp in Jacob Sawyer's pasture, and he gives you a
quart of milk, say so, instead of "a good old man showed us a favor;"
for in after-years the memory of it will be sweeter than the milk was,
and it will puzzle you to recall the "good old man's" name and what the
favor was. If you have time, try to draw: never mind if it is a poor
picture. I have some of the strangest-looking portraits and most
surprising perspectives in my diaries written when fifteen to twenty
years old; but I would not exchange them now for one of the "old
masters." Do not neglect the narrative, however, for sake of