Yesterday was the last [day] I could call myself 16. So ends a happy industrious year, happy in that I was always busy, and one of the happiest, I am sure, that I shall ever have. To-day I am 17; I hate to be getting so old. This next year will be an important one, and I must indeed work hard. But the summer hols. will be sweet in compensation. Celebrated with a fine tea but postponed general spread to Sunday on account of Lent. Got a fine racket from Mám and Páp, and a cake and book of Carlyle, ‘Extracts’, from Stockleys. Well contented! Well contented! Well contented!
