or me and no mop to _marcelle_ if I try to revolutionize
Indiandom.

Last night at a wonderful performance of Fiske in "Rosmerholm," the
house was packed with Indians and in the ghostly part where everybody
throws himself into the mill-stream, Squaw Sloppy-Closey and Chief
Many-Licey opened soda pop and passed it to each other for a drink out
of the same bottle. Poor Fiske was horrified and threatened to stop the
performance if the soda pop artillery didn't cease its bombarding.

The wind tears around the corner of my room on the bias and the cats
keep up a Thomas Concert beneath my windows all night long. No wonder I
have nightmares. Last night I dreamed that I was a saint with an apple
pie for a halo--this boarding house pie habit will eventually tell on
the strongest nerves.

Last night I cut my leg on a barbed wire--no dear I wasn't hurdling the
fence--the wire was on the side walk, where everything except the
kitchen stove usually lies. I hope I won't have lockjaw--it's harder on
a woman than it is on a man anytime. I was just thinking how clever it
would be, if a man who had a chattering wife, would keep a bunch of
rusty pins on hand.

I sat down to the piano this morning and ran through that pyrotechnical
_Solfigetto_ by the other Bach, and Father Time, who sat enchanted,
said, "You and the piano has met before." It's a shame to cheat the
aged.

Thank heaven that the sunshine is free and that the florist's window is
gratis to look at, otherwise on my slender means I should have to take
advantage of the bankrupt law.

My old friend Insomnia again stands incessantly at the foot of my bed
and bids me corner the sunrise market. A heavy heart is mine tonight and
though I try to fancy beautiful pictures in the crystal ball of the
future, I grow sick with anticipation as the visions fall away before
they are half formed, leaving me melancholy and wondering if there is an
angel somewhere who collects the sighs of such ever-repressed feeling.

Goodnight,
MARIANNE.

October 5.

Lorna Dear:

Well, Lorna, you and I were "all day suckers" to believe that Mrs.
Phyllis Lathrop was touring California; I bumped plump into her
yesterday in front of the poor-house. No, dear, I did not go there to
stay, merely to visit. Phyllis is nice in her red-headed way and looked
very fresh and sweet with the lower part of her