I haven’t got anything very interesting to say, but I’d like to write something. Anyway, it’s not as though “my readers are depending on me!” as Than would say.
I got up at nine-thirty today and went back to bed at twelve-thirty, and then didn’t get up again until three-thirty, at which time I took a shower. Then I threw on a coat and went for a walk. It gets dark so early. I’ve lived here all my life, and somehow it still surprises me every year. You’d think I’d be used to the darkness by now.
Deep doldrums today. It has been so grey, and that makes everything harder. My walk was nice, though. It was warm but misting, which felt very nice on my hot cheeks. I’ve always hated the way my face turns so brilliantly red. Isn’t it enough that I have spots? I don’t need to be red, too.
Well, before I regret typing that, I’ll move on. Standish is a nice place to walk. I feel safe from people, anyway. The woods are very thick and brooding at night, and with the woodsmoke from the scattered houses and the mustiness of leaves and the fresh smell of the rain, there was a very nice scent. So I enjoyed that somewhat.
I did get the Communist Manifesto and am reading it. One chapter left in the Titanic book, and then I think I’m going to read some Elsie Dinsmore. I like those books.

We (the Libbys and I) are having a dinner entirely composed of pie tonight. We had a full leftover apple pie from a church supper last night, and Mrs. L made a chicken pot pie to precede it. Excellent.

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