My sense of distance – especially where any great distance is concerned – is very tricky and my conception of the location of foreign countries is apt to merge into the mysterious. Mexico and Canada are properly situated in my mental picture of the world. When Mexico is mentioned in conversation, somewhere in my consciousness is registered a security in the fact that Mexico is “so many” hundred miles to my left or over yon hill-top, to be more concise. If a conversational gesture is needed, no second-thought is necessary to jerk a thumb in the direction of Mexico, Canada or any one of the United States. But out of this range, places and peoples merge into a dim geographical twilight, and their mention will call up only remembered names, racial peculiarities, famous buildings, or characteristic pictures of the country, and often an image of the shape of the country’s boundaries gained from study in a geography or territorial map of some kind. This discourse was impelled by the broadcast just now from the summit of Jung Frau Mountain, highest point in Switzerland. Something to think about this – Sounds of a train, of human voices high above Berne, where the temperature was -4° C. at 7 o’clock in the evening.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
6/27/34
6/13/34
Here’s hoping the day will not be long coming when an employe [sic] may bargain with his employer in a manner suited to the dealings of two traders, both of whom have something of a known value which can be measured for its worth in a given quantity from the store of the other. While commodity prices have dropped to maybe half or one-third, the market for employment dropped out of sight. An employer knows he holds in his little industry a strong power of persuasion which he can exercise with little fear of losing a good trade. He knows that all his opposing bargainer can do is bluff; and all he has to do to call the bluff is pass on to the next man – there are plenty of others standing in line.
The employer who throws up to his employes the fact that hundreds are waiting, willing to step into their places, and uses that to enforce long hours, doubled duties, and slashed wages gives little room for all of the little extras that make effort and industry a fair trade – and then some – for the dollars and cents paid out for it. The conscientious worker puts in more time than his eight hours a day would indicate. In the first place, that man more than likely had to learn his trade with no small expenditure of money and time. Behind his ability are years of servitude at small wages, study, and worry incident to selecting an occupation. The conscientious worker, furthermore, spends part of his wages and part of his spare time improving his own capacities and acquiring the latest information relative to his trade. It is not likely that a man’s mind is entirely vacant of his daily routine when he goes home at night, and no doubt many weighty problems are solved in the wakeful hours of the early night. The employer is not charged with this time, and yet they are the best hours of a man’s life. The conscientious worker is always an advertisement for his employer, and that is about 16 hours a day – twice the time he turns in.
5/23/34
Idea for a story: treat two characters separately, telling first of one and then the other, dividing time evenly and in short doses – now here, now there, here, there, etc. bringing each to the climax without meeting the other until then; Fate! (similiar [sic]: O. Henry’s Roads of Destiny)
5/22/34
Socialism will never succeed: the underdog, coming into a comfortable living, will never be content unless when he drives along in his Chevrolet he can dust the ashes from his “two-for-a-nickel” cigar into the hat of his neighbor afoot.
An article in “The Parade” is titled “In the North Woods.” Facetiously, I prefer “The Canadian North Woods Mountains Puleese.”
5/13/34
I like to be wrong. One’s handling of a situation in which he has predicted wrong may be made to speak more for his experience and sagacity than that of one in which he has predicted right. The inexperienced fret and fume about the reverse of events as if it were the first time such had ever happened. The wise judge will put it down that the prophet just now making his first mistake can have had little experience, else there would have been scores of mistakes behind him and he would have known how to handle the situation more effectively. For instance, if I predict that the low hanging clouds will dissipate and that the day will be hotter than any this year and we go ahead on the picnic and get drenched for six solid hours waiting for the downpour to stop long enough for us to dry some wood, the soaked picnickers will come to me for an explanation. If I pace the floor and shake my fists at the heavens, cursing this as the first time I had ever missed guessing the elements, they will look at me askance, doubting, and my sour attitude will serve but to deepen the gloom. This is wrong. I must grin, shake out my own floppy, sticky clothing, and admit that I had made a mistake – one which had damaged my personal belongings just as much as those of anyone else in the party. If this procedure doesn’t convince them that the mistake was negligible, it will at least (about this time the car came for me; it did not rain – and hasn’t ‘til yet (5-22-34)
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
5/4/34
If you think your own little room is small, try lying on your back on the floor and looking up.
4/11/34
This was a big day in the 25¢ an hour field. Worked from 8 to 12 and 1 to 6 on the Mountain Sun[1], sitting, sitting, poking, and changing liners and moving heavy magazines. Then walked home – ran part of the way – to supper. Bathed, shaved, and at 7:30 was ready to work for Guinn, and sat square in a chair, tap, tap, tap-tap-ing dictation on a typewriter for three hours.
4/2/34
I wonder if one’s little fears and aversions are portent of future disaster: for instance, does a dread of water indicate that death will come by drowning, or an ungovernable impulse to jump from high places man death from a fall? I fear I shall meet mine by having my belly slit open in some dark alley, for I often feel quite exposed – gastrically – when standing in the breeze with light weight trousers and loose underwear.
3/30/34
He walked up to him, swiftly measured with his nose the area between his right coat lapel and shoulder, spoke crisply, “My wife,” and shot him dead.
The old woman who kept her money in pockets of her petticoat – one pocket for each denomination, and counted her fortune in church –
[Two pages missing – torn out.]
3/25/34
Idea for a poem: The spectral uncertainty of death and its influence on all living, but its easy companionship with those who have gone on. The little child, exchanging this life for his companionship with death probably laughs mockingly from his corpse at the shrinking, cringing monarch of wealth and power clutching madly – futilely – at the life he KNOWS, fearing to exchange it for the hereafter, which he has neglected to study or to pursue. His worldly affairs have allowed him no time for contemplating immortality – until too late. The innocent babe early learns the secret of which the learned philosopher and scientist grows old wondering. And, barring the possibility of suicide, which is an underhanded solution, the scientist will never learn that secret by his own research or cunning prying. Ironically enough, when the time comes to him, he will touch “the thing” reluctantly – even unwillingly – fearing “the thing” in the search of which he has devoted his life. What food for thought for those who rush aimlessly through life little questioning the miracles of creation – finally arriving at the same threshold to be shorn of all earthly vanities – very naked indeed among people whose garments are the robes of the spirit laid up at the cost of self-denial and sacrifice on earth.
Back to the conception of Death. I think of my own mother and father. Thrice the seed was/were sown, gave forth new life, and sent up three ambitious plants – frail in their relationship to this world, but well guarded and nurtured – perhaps at a cost which will never be fully realized, paid by – . Will the fruits of these plants flourish beautifully causing the world to regret that the stock from which it came should have passed on never again to furnish it fruits such as these, or will the world curse and burn the fruits and the plants, thanking God that there were no more – an eternal damnation of the parents from which they sprung.
I can still see from my window the tent covering the graves of that crippled man and his heroic sister who laid down her life with his in an attempt to save him. Framing the picture are the gnarled trunk and motionless leaves of the big oak tree just outside my window standing steadily portent of the several times another fifty years it will survey the wonderful awe-inspiring parade of human existence which will pass beneath is branches. Its heart and some of its branches have been seared by the jagged flaming rapier of the elements, but its feet are strong in the mellow soil, and the scars are sealed with impermeable cement.3/24/34
Device for a short story:
The crafty, scheming sometimes almost super human half-wit, whom people half pity and half fear. A serious accident involving the death of a very popular and well liked person – lured into a trap by a mysterious letter. A sudden, fearful thought – he rushes to the waste paper basket, finds ants on the flap where the envelope had been licked for sealing – ! The half-wit had had a drooling, slobbering passion for peppermint candy. He had devised and sent the letter resulting in the death. The person killed could have been the idiot’s only protector.
For short story: Guinn’s precarious turning at the top of this cliff just outside Hoon Hall - Let the brakes and steering wheel be the cause of the accident. (This is a bare frame-work for only the smallest item of the plot, however).
P. de E. strikes me in a peculiar way. Aside from his two-faced tendencies (which sometimes seem to point to downright lying ability) and his slovenliness, he has pretty fair ideas, despite, I suppose, his limited opportunities for acquiring an appreciation for the better things. I honestly believe that he does know he has his delinquencies, and that is a long stride in the right direction. Furthermore, I believe he has improved 100 per cent since he first came to Schreiner. In addition to that, I can’t say that he has had every opportunity – what with others taking every opportunity to emphasize his faults to him, and what with my being around to furnish an example. He did have a great deal of room for improvement in the way of personal cleanliness, and despite his many improvements along this line, he still has a long way to go. Cox says he “looks like a pig.” Perhaps I think so, too, but I can’t say that I have yet been provoked to the extent of saying so in public. But C. says a lot of things that I often believe have not been given proper consideration beforehand. P. de E. has an inkling of the right way to do things, but he just does not seem to be imbued with the certain inherited, instinctive, or what-have-you spark with which to fire it. I despair for his future at anything except a saw mill or small town radio work. He will never be able to meet the public more than once without creating a bad impression.
Another device: An interview with the aged grave digger over tombstones – and checking the interesting information with another – impartial – observer of the same events:
For instance, tomb stones do not tell if shot, stabbed, or burned to death; whether in a cowardly, unknowing, or heroic manner. Today the remains of two – a man, invalid, 32, and his sister, single, 40 – are being buried in th cemetery across the creek. From my window I can see the tent over the graves – grim spectre in the center of the bleak picture, half framed by the gnarled old limbs of the sinister oak almost within reach of my hand.3/22/34
The linotype operator has a wonderful opportunity for self-expression. To the proof-reader goes the responsibility for the operator’s mistakes, and if the fingers slip-up on so small a detail as one letter in the middle depths of a five-syllable word, and if the error “goes through,” the operator will shrug his shoulders and nod toward the proof reader.
This week I could have set:
“… Mrs. Farr sank two solos…”
“The last number on the pogrom…”
3/5/34
Songs remind me:
“I’m forever Blowing Bubbles” – L.Lois January.
“My Isle of Golden Dreams” – Miss Kling, a boarder.3/4/34
The preacher’s sermon this morning held a lot of inspiration for me.
There was something of a challenge in his saying that there had never been any doubt in his mind as to the existence of Jesus Christ, that when he says “God” he has come to mean Jesus. He said he had to admit that his mind is hazy on the existence of God, but he is satisfied with his conception of Christ. My thoughts were then diverted from the sermon while I pursued the possibilities of a good campaign for Christianity. If arguments are won by yielding points, why could not Christianity be furthered by hypothetically granting the unbelievers that since we have no material and visible evidence of a God – a supreme being, the Father of Christ – let us grant a spirit of since-we-don’t-know-we-can’t-say, if the other side will in turn acknowledge the existence of the Christ and the blessings which have been brought to the world by its perpetuity. They cannot help allowing that there could be no civilization without Christianity – or the principles of individual rights and divine worship which Christianity teaches. It stands as an indisputable fact that without those principles there could be no civilization – no right or wrong; therefore, it must be admitted that the principles of Christianity are good for the world, regardless of whether or not they are accepted unaminously [sic] by the world as Christianity. Whether the desire to respect one’s neighbor, to despise stealing, killing, etc., comes from within or from without, the fact remains that they are good for us.
With this step accomplished, the next would be to teach the world its responsibility to posterity. Church life – and active church life – has been the only force which has preserved the Bible and the all-important matter of reverence for it 2000 years, and I know, nor can think of, no other way to keep the spirit of civilization alive for peoples yet unborn than an outward show of religious fervor to create anew a respect for the Sabbath in those who are examples for the lower and middle strata of life.
Certainly the half empty churches of today do not tend toward that goal. From my own casual observance, I would say that only in the small towns and communities in still found that mutual feeling of reverence for the Sabbath. There, and there only, is the Sunday morning stand-out in the minority, while in the cities, supposed to be the centers of culture, intellect, and all that is considered fine and successful in this world, we find the church-goers far in the minority and lacking the deep-seated consciousness of the purpose of it all that we remember best in our mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers. It isn’t hard to see that here we have the reverse of what should properly be: religion going hand in hand with the finer things of the civilization it has created. The path of religion has been one from the savage to the successful and philanthropic business man – success mingled with philanthropy, with a side interest in the arts, seem to be the ultimate in a full life now, as viewed by the average man. Though the parallel cannot be considered a true one, we have come nevertheless to consider the farm and the city as opposite and contrasting ends of the ladder of intellect – of New World civilization, if we may be allowed to call it so. As a boy becomes older and wiser, he is expected to leave the farm and move on to something just a little bit better, with the aim of ultimately attaining success in the city. The City holds the key to all that is great and worth while in this life.
But back there at the foot of this topsy-turvy ladder of modern civilization is the last real evidence of the force that has brought civilization to the point where men could have the City. Having obtained his City, it seems that man has turned his back on the impelling force in his picture, literally cutting loose all binding strings, so that his sons, grandsons, and great grandsons may decline to a level approaching that of the savage from which he sprung.
The answer to this is obvious: more religion in the City, more church-going along with pocket-fishing on the part of the intelligentsia – a return to the old days in this respect.
[Four pages missing – torn out.]
3/1/34
Why selecting to come to S.I. has proved to have been a wise course (or “there is a destiny which shapes our end”):
1) Forgot K. -> Saw K.’s greatest imperfection -> met W.A. -> through him met B. -> through her have learned the desirability of living the fuller life.
2) Have gained two years’ college work which probably never would have attained otherwise.
3) Have made a rather enviable record at S.I.
4) Have gotten “away from home” for the first time.
5) Have made new friends and established a residence in a new locality where people have not known be all my life and have not seen me grow up.
6) Made a good connection with the Department of Justice, and glimpsed a happier life in secretarial work instead of newspaper work.
7) Broke away from the Monitor, thus escaping a “grindstone” existence, the muck of a political-war-torn country, and the possibility of being left jobless.
2/22/34
[Missing page, torn out. “2213” written at torn edge.]
Although a man may have suffered some great wound or loss – the loss of father, son, or wife, or arm, leg, or eye, of time in his life span, due to illness, perhaps – the world expects a great deal of him in the way of attitude. One of the first thoughts one who has been so bereaved would have would be that his outlook on life may not be changed, that those with whom he will come in contact will not understand his great sorrow or his deficiency, whichever it may be, and will put down any unusual action as eccentricity or childish weakness. And so the world does. If a Man has lost an eye or an arm and is more than normally jocular, people say he is peculiar. If he does not try to adjust himself to his loss, he becomes morbid, and people say he is brooding – and peculiar on that account. It is one of the most difficult things in the world to heal a wound without a scar. I try to forgive Mrs. S. for her outstandingly offensive faults by realizing that she is capable of very deep feeling for emotion and the finer things of life. Sometime I intend to ask those who may know if she has changed any since the death of her husband – I belive I will find she used to be different.
2/11/34
A brother writes on his little sister’s 16th birthday:
Dearest Dorothy:
Another year rolls around, and now you’re sixteen years old.
When I think what a headstrong, self-willed, irresponsible person I was at sixteen, I wonder how I escaped continually having my ears knocked down, and I thank the lucky stars that have helped my little sister to be sweet, considerate, and commanding of respect in the eyes of everyone – so much an improvement over her older brother.
Until Mr. Roosevelt succeeds in his recovery program, I am still only waving at the special occasions as they fly past, and here’s my wish for many more happy birthdays for you.
With Love,
John.
2/9/34
A good literary magazine:
The American Spectator, Inc.
12 E. 41st St, N.Y., City. $1.25 yr.
Editors: Geo. Jean Nathan Jas. Branch Cabell
Ernest Boyd Eugene O’Neill
Theadore Dreiser2/8/34
I have a certain jealous nature that just won’t be denied. Tonight it nearly broke loose, and, in its unorganized state, might have caused me no small amount of trouble.
This guy in Calif. – an old friend – gets too thick a letter to suit me. – Like her mother, I don’t see what they can find to talk about. I was in a fair humor until that came up. She asks me to mail four letters – and the fourth is to him. Surely he isn’t a nut! There’s bound to be some attraction. And I just sat there. Nothing interested me. My goodnight must have been unimpressive, to say the least. Added to this general feeling of depression was her illness and the peculiar frame of mind in which I have een left by Maugham’s Philip Carey – he loved desperately and deeply, but his women just didn’t click. – He was miserable.
I feel that I must come to some understanding. There must be some sort of explanation about this relationship as for now and as for the future. I could even threaten to hinge the future on a decision to do or not to do my will in matters such as this. This jealous feeling can not ruin my equanimity all my life. [1]
[1] Bernice added the following note dated 12-26-67: Johnny, my dear – The “guy in California” was a fellow I knew in high school, and we carried on a wonderful correspondence about ideas, places we’d been, etc. Incidentally, he asked me to marry him after I became engaged to your father, but I never told John that. We often wonder what would have happened if we’d taken the other road, but if I had – in this case – I wouldn’t have you! Love – DOM [Note: DOM = Dear Old Mom, my pet name for her.]
2/4/34
Since I have been writing these little minute thoughts, I have come to one realization: one should never go very far in creative story writing without spending some time trying to interpret his own feelings. If I cannot write about my own inner reactions, how can I expect to make true characterizations?
I wonder if I were far away from home and anything I could even call home, would not the nearest thing I could find to fill the vacant place be the tenderness of a church of the same denomination I had known at home.
A queer quirk of my own nature –and incidentally that of others my own age here – is that attachment one acquires for one’s own chair and place in the dining hall. [1] Each table has four places on each side and one on each end, and unless I have my customary place, the meal does not taste the same. Fortunately, however, it does not take long for me to become used to a place. I say “fortunately,” because in the two summers I have spent here, I have usually been the “odd man” and have been forced to eat at first one place and then another. The discomfort of making a change is usually very vexing and results in digestive disturbance (mild) and loss of appetite. In all my changes I have sat in the various side positions and at both ends of the table, finding it an easy task to become accustomed to any position – whether flanked closely on either side or both, or free of elbow at the end of the table. It merely takes time. My conclusion is that the “becoming accustomed” is not in relation to the particular place but to the company and one’s relative position among its members. One learns to resent the presence of a newcomer – even when the newcomer displaces a particularly irritable member of the usual company.
Mile posts for future reckoning of time which has gone by:
B – Fiesta in S.A. April 21, 1932 – Xmas in Valley, December, 1933 – Pledge, July 24, 1932 – First anniversary and first of a series of unusual events, July 23rd 1933.
K. – Trip to Mier, July 4, 1931 – Left for S.I. Sept., 1931 – Visited K. in S.A. hospital, Dec., 1931. – Visited Kerrville Feb 22, 1932 (with H.B.) – returned ring about June 1, 1932 in McAllen
L. Law. – Mid-Winter Fair at Harlingen (Dec. 1930?) – Trip to Raymondville with family. – Snapshot trip with Mynott and I. along river (also J.G. and Mag. Wms.)
L Lock. – J.G. in’st’d and left school Sept, ‘31
D.L. – Latter part graduation yr. ‘28
F.A. – Time J.G. had gone S.I. (his time ’30-’31)
Also with L.Law while J.G. at S.I.
L.S, O.M., interests in period 1929-31.
Was with L.Law in 1930 when folks gave me Indian blanket – suggested as lap robe. Lost on New Year’s ever or Christmas night trip to Reynosa in family car (terrible!) and had to make special trip to Edinburg to buy another.
Born Oct. 26, 1911 – McAllen.
James March 9, 1915
Dorothy Feb. 13, 1918
Father died Feb. 14, 1919
Jan 23, 1923.
Went to live with uncle and aunt. [2]
Freshman McAllen High 1924-25.
9th grade Main Ave High (S.A.) 1925-26.
10th grade Main Ave High (S.A.) 1926-27.
11th grade and Grad McAllen High 1927-28.
Truck driver, Taylor Lbr. Co., June, 1928.
McAllen Monitor, June, 1928, to Sept, 1931.
Schreiner Inst. Sept 1931. to June 1933.
St. Louis via New Orleans, Memphis, summer of 1930.
Summer work office S.I. June, 1933-Sept 28, 1933.
S.A. Y.M.C.A Sept 28-Oct 14, 1933
Mountain Sun, Kerrville, Oct 1933 –
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
2/3/34
“Unless you Lead”
An incident last night brought to my mind the fact that maybe I am not such a head-strong, independent sort of a fellow as I myself and others might believe.
It was at dancing class. B. had been playing piano and was already tired when we began dancing. She seemed to lack her usual pep as we started one of the simple steps – and as a result neither of us did well dancing the whole evening. [1]
It has since been my realization that my characteristic lack of “aggressiveness” is carried over to the dance floor, and instead of making my partner feel at ease, I throw on her the burden of leading and following as well.
So it is in my other relations with B. On her is thrown all the burden of making our conversations interesting. If I am tired and listless, hers is the burden of entertaining – trying to spur me into giving some recognition of her by inserting a word now and then.
But if she is ill – though she may inwardly ache for a cheery work, none is forthcoming from me – a good reason for irritation, to say the least. Her irritation, then, is cause for added irritation on my part – and the evening ends in a double-slighting set. On my part, at least, if not on hers.
How can anyone put up with me! She must be a deep-feeling woman – really interested in what little bits of affection trickle her way.
A plea: Please manage to hide your irritable feelings and be pleasant at all costs! Don’t let adoration, if such it be, go to your head. If it is not adoration – you are a fool anyway, and a greater on, at that. Make an effort to be pleasant at those times when you don’t feel like it – OR YOU MAY LOSE SOMETHING YOU VALUE VERY HIGHLY!
[1] Bernice later added the following note: “Johnny – He just wasn’t a good dancer! Ask his sister!”
1/29/34
Ambition for future fulfillment:
1. Time Magazine -- $5 yr. (weekly)
2. Reader’s Digest -- $3 yr. (monthly)
I have known for some time what type of magazine the Reader’s Digest is, and I held a mental reservation against it for being a sort of underhanded way of taking advantage of legitimate magazines which must bear the expense of large-scale production of writings from which the R.D. takes the meaty parts. To my friends who boasted of their readings in the R.D. I cast mental darts for their laziness in taking the literary gleanings of another.
But tonight I spent a pleasant evening reading on many subjects – any one of which would have required an evening’s work plodding through the prolixity of the complete article. Then too, the articles are reproduced in a style which is art in itself – “clear, curt, concise,” as Time advertises itself. The foregoing notes on two of the articles are convincing proof that I was interested. (See other booklet for the notes.) [1]
[1] The “other booklet” is unknown.
1/28/34
1. Simile: As left-out feeling as a boy whose best girl has just got a new kitten.
2. I suddenly remembered: my chagrin when Knerr changed his “Happy German Twins (or Kids – I don’t know which it was) to The Katzenjammer Kids – because of World War anti-German sentiment.
3. Thought to check up on: Musicians play to moods. Divine the mood by studying numbers selected. Tonight “Painting the Cloud with Sunshine” and “Let’s All Sing Like the Birdies Sing” were spontaneous selections[1] and my guess is the mood was “left-outish,” because I did not call this afternoon as I had been invited to do. Which would indicate a desire to palliate with an opposite or cheery music – maybe I’m bragging. But, as I say, it will take study.
4. An advance to JH of 5, 10, maybe 15 years from now: A false feeling of beneficence and “sharing one’s joys with the neighbors” is in me merely a desire to “show off.” Sharing has for me little joy unless I am, by doing so, made the “big shot” at the time – so to speak. I’m afraid this is true, and I can only hope that I will live it down. Thus, I address this to myself 10, 15 years from not. Memory of the thought will likely be amusing then. Parenthetically: A good idea for a novel essay of the “Golden Book” type would be to write a series of letters to oneself 10 years in the future.
It seems I cannot appreciate listening to a radio as much unless I am at the dials, and am able to rest assured that the selector dial is exactly on the station – that the volume dial has not been unnecessarily opened up to take care of improper selection of the station. This is only a partial explanation – I believe the real reason is that I want to be the center of the show – the man who sets the dials – the one to whom all the listeners should be indebted for their mirth, their enjoyment, and their thrill at hearing the voice of some popular idol of the day. I don’t enjoy my auto ride nearly as much as when I am doing the driving, picking the route, etc. I only hope this is a passing youthful foible – it is certain to become offensive to someone, if it hasn’t already.
5. In a newspaper today, an item, or rather a statement, to the effect that success in the future will be measured by achievements other than the accumulation of wealth – achievements such as come in the fields of art, science, and human welfare – my only chance to be a “success, I fear.”
6. Yesterday was a “red letter” day in the way of new achievement. My posts on The Mountaineer[2]: interviewer, feature writer, editor, book editor, head writer, advertising copy solicitor, type setter, proof reader, make-up man, and press feeder. Proud? Sure, why not! What if it is only a 5-col., 4-page sheet!
7. Bud just dropped in on his late check of exam-cramming Hoon Hallers.[3] Must quit.
1/7/34
1. One of Chance’s absurd tenants: Sheet of music “Lazy River” still carrying mud stains sustained when Ye Guadalupe roared on a 30-foot rise and backed up in Quinlan Creek a year ago last summer.
2. Read some day: H. G. Wells “Outline of History.” Study with intent to remember. But I won’t. Recently I have resigned as hopeless ever being able to remember details of what I read.
3. Blistered thumbs from pulling taffy candy look as though “hitch-hiking” were tough!” Cr. B. [1]
4. Read as a classic in the use of the English language: Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey.” O.O. McIntire.
