e that every married man ought to be made to run after
his wife. And I told him he'd be out of breath most of the time if he
tied up with me.

I went to church Sunday and the funny man at the head of the table said
he was going round to view the ruins in the afternoon. Father Time, who
sits opposite me and mows down the food said, "Every stylish woman I
see, I know she's getting a divorce and I can't understand it, as most
of them are good looking." I answered "You didn't see the other half."

I am not going to correspond with Bern as our mail might be intercepted.
For although I'm passing through the mournful ceremony of losing my
husband in South Dakota, I don't want to gather too much dust on my
skirts on the way to the funeral. We send each other registered letters
every day--but that's different--nobody could possibly get those.

There is a woman here who does a queer, pretty sort of embroidery. And
she said this morning with unquenchable urbanity, "I will learn you how
to do shadow work." Now Bern and I have been busy on all sorts of shadow
work for the past four years in New York, but this is a different
pattern. Sioux Falls is plethoric of widows and when one is freed, the
other convicts writhe under the burden of their stripes. Dearie, won't
you drop in and try to quiet my dressmaker? She is beginning to show
evidences of dissatisfaction--inscrutable sign-manual of finances at low
tide. I'm not rich but I'm sweet and clean--did I hear two dollars and a
dish of cherries?

I have bought a calendar with the dates on a block of pages--one page
for each day, just for the joy of tearing them off with a vim every
twenty-four hours. Sometimes I allow two days to pass, then I do a war
dance like a Sioux, wild at the opportunity of pulling off a couple at a
time.

There is a N. Y. Central time table on my desk and I am eternally
looking up train connections until I feel like a bureau of information.
I have enough money to get back on, tucked away in my stocking. And if
I have to take in washing I won't touch it. Funds are getting very low
so I've started writing short stories again but "like" usual, publishers
don't seem to recognize a genius and my P. O. box is always filled with
long yellow comebacks--slip enclosed "Sorry we find your valuable Mss.
unavailable for our publication, etc." However, nothing beats trying but
failure. And although everything on this mud ball looks inky, and I am
once more Past Grand Mas