March 3, 1919

This is Sunday and I am enjoying the luxury of laziness. Not only is it Sunday, but it is noon. And I have just opened my eyes and tobacco bag.

Last night I went to bed at one o’clock, thought it was really only twelve. the summer time standard went into effect and everyone lost an hour of night. Of course I had to make up for it somehow. I did. I awoke at 11 A.M. when Frank, who wanted to go to church at 10, asked me the time. Since then I have been lying here thinking it over, and have just decided. First, a pipe (beautiful corn cob); second, lower half remain under cover, upper clothed in O.D. shirt; third, write a letter. If there be a fourth it is that I’m awful comfortable.

I don’t understand why people waste their Sunday mornings so. Look at Frank. Still he’s a Catholic, in a Catholic country. There’s a Protestant church in Vincennes and I don’t even know where it is. I believe, if you must go to church over here, it is much more sensible to go to an interesting one – a ruined or noted or beautiful one. So I sleep.

There have been so many changes of time since I last saw you, that I can’t figure out in just which time era you’re living.

Last night I spent at the lab, printing up a lot of pictures – mostly those we had made on our trip.

Friday night I was to have gone to Bellamy’s for a lesson, but it was M. Streiff’s 44^th birthday, so I went there for dinner, and later adjourned next door to Kesler’s who have a new pianola and like it. Ye Gods.

Now I think it is about time to get up. It’s 12:25 and I ought to wash, dress and lay out all the prints on my bed to dry. And dinner is at one and I’m hungry. I had planned to go to the Louvre this afternoon. Don’t know yet, whether I shall or not.

Now it’s three o’clock. Cold, drizzly, March. Billy’s fire is more attractive than the Louvre. And here I am. Only Watson for company.

Next post March 6.