February 9, 1919

I went to Mme. Jeanne’s for supper last night and sat and talked, till, by the time I got back to Billy’s, it was too late to write. This morning I awoke at noon to see the sun. Real sun; can you imagine such a thing. I got up and washed next door and just made it in time for dinner.

Tomorrow it will be two weeks that Frank is gone and I miss him. Why? Because I sleep right through the bugle calls. I haven’t been to breakfast six times since he left. Often I don’t awake till after eight. Then if I don’t go to Mme. Jeanne’s I do without.

Today after dinner I came up to Billy’s, heated water and shaved and washed properly. Then I sat down intending to write, but it seemed a shame to stay in on the one sunny day, so out I went.

At first it was cold, but as I walked I began to glow. It was fine. I went east through woods and past a half-frozen lake (which made me thing of Woodlands). Then I came out on a road leading to Joinville. Everything was white and cold; even the bracing air seemed crisply white. Occasionally a yellow trolley car rattled by in charge of a pretty pink-cheeked girl. About half of these suburban cars have female “wattmans.” On the rushing front platforms of a tram it is hard to tell whether it’s a man or a girl; they are dressed almost alike. Only eyes, nose and cheeks show. If a fur neckpiece comes just below these it’s a girl; if a set of whiskers, most likely it’s a man.

There were some ducks and swans in the lake. They reminded me of a hardy polar expedition, for they were entirely surrounded by ice. A little square of black open water near shore, in which they paddled round; the rest flat, desolate ice.

The French are not so strong for cold weather. They bundle up and complain and sit inside their stuffy rooms. They even keep their windows shut when they sleep. Preserve me from a people like that.

The Marne runs through Joinville. It is about as wide as the Passaic river and indescribably lovely. It is placid and smooth. Along its banks are white and cold, tawny fields, with upright woods here and there. Near a town there will be a row of poplars, planted and growing up so straight that a heavenly axe might cleave them all down the exact center at one stroke.

It is the kind of river for which canoes are made. Even the towns and villages have a way of softening off into the picturesque as they come down to the river.

I came back by car, about in time for supper. After supper I went to Streiffs’ for an hour or so, and here I am. Where? In front of the same fire.

It is now ten o’clock and I’m sleepy because I slept so late.

Next post February 12.