American Studies Department - Robert Bolwell's Diary of a Trip Across the U.S., 1933

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A Two-Month Criss-Crossing of the United States, 1933
The Daily Diary of Robert W. Bolwell as a basis for his American Civilization Major at The George Washington University

THE BEGINNING

Thursday, Feb. 16 Durham, N.C. 304 miles

The One Man Expedition of Investigation moved out of Washington shortly after noon today, crossed the entire state of Virginia without mishap or discovery, and under cover of darkness, entered North Carolina. In spite of recent blizzards, the roads were dry, but bordered by boggy mud. The air was too cool for open windows; the sun warm on the face; all traces of snow left behind at Richmond. The oar shrieked in every joint, unused to a 300-mile run; the engine is at its best. The next lubrication will take out the squeaks and rattles. Realizing the tremendous mileage which I will put on the car before the trip is over; I drove slowly and watched traffic closely. I should like to make the entire circle of the country without a scratch on the body or a clank in the motor.

Lunched in a cheap joint in Fredericksburg. The road had less traffic as I got further south. Not many through cars, tourists pleasure-bound, were going south to Florida. The old sign-boards, put up a few flush years ago to encourage tourists, look rather forlorn. Many lunch-stands and cabin-parks were closed. Below Richmond most of the "Tourists Accommodated" places had little colored boys standing in front to beckon in the trade; some even in uniforms. Found a good way to go around Richmond by a park-boulevard, and avoided the city congestion. Virginia, as seen from Route 1, is surprisingly poor country, thinly settled, and poverty-stricken. Some of it looks like frontier country.

Ate dinner at a drab hotel in Henderson, N.C. -- dirty table linen, shiftless service, noisy radio, etc. The only main dish that could not be made of left-overs was oysters, so I was reduced to that, with sweet potatoes! At Henderson I saw my first southern cotton mill, a huge factory several blocks long, lit up but probably not working overtime at present. I imagine, because of its size, that it employs most of the town. On to Durham in the dark, arriving about 9.30, and putting up at its one new, modern hotel, the Washington Duke. Writing in my room until bed-time.

Friday, Feb. 17. Pinehurst, N.C. 95 miles

A happy and successful day. A brisk walk about the square containing the hotel, an economical breakfast in the "Coffee Shop," and out to Duke University. In spite of what I had heard and seen in photographs, I was amazed at the luxurious beauty of the university plant. It seems artificial in its complete unity, planted out in a pine forest away from all other human life. The chapel is a cathedral, each dormitory quadrangle a college. No evidence of a slow-growing tradition or up-hill climb in academic prestige, -- pop! And here is a gorgeous university plant, filled with students, teachers, "culture", manuscripts, rare books, even a colonial printing press on exhibit. The faculty seems to be willing to disparage it somewhat, feeling perhaps that they are called there only by the force of the Duke millions, surely not from any inspiration to teach or study human aspiration.

At Durham saw evidence of the tobacco trade; huge factory for Chesterfield cigarettes. Yesterday saw buildings covering many acres of Lucky Strike tobacco, in hogsheads, ageing.

Hubbell, editor of the American Literature quarterly, played the cordial host in his quiet way. First, I called on Dean Miller the Law School, and delivered a letter from his personal friend President Marvin; cordial and anxious to help me. I located Hubbell, through him met almost the entire English Department; smoked and chatted in the department office. I became intimate, academically, with Gohdes and Anderson (who is working on Melville). Gohdes, Hubbell's assistant on the quarterly, will be interested in my students’ work touching Emerson and Whitman, and other mid-19-century topics; may facilitate publication.

After a tour of the campus, went to the women’s campus, Trinity College; more new buildings, but more modest. At lunch in neighbor¬ing apartment restaurant: Green, dean of curriculum; Baum, medievalist; Anderson, Gohdes, Hubbell. Gay small talk. Got Creel’s new book, Thomas Paine, to review for the quarterly. Hubbell piloted me over to Chapel Hill. The University of North Carolina shows more growth; old, middle-aged, and new buildings; a fine library, new carillon tower, and beautiful stadium built into a natural valley covered with pines. The long leaf pine in this piedmont country is magnificent; graceful, fresh in its greenery, and no tangled underbrush beneath. Met Adams, interested in Thoreau, and walked with him about the grounds. Coffman, head of the department, and Gregory Paine were pleasant in a short talk apiece. Received suggestions for people and places on my trip.

At four, left Chapel Hill for Pinehurst; drove slowly and arrived at six. The country seems a high plateau, barren and uncultivated, and, as in Virginia, under populated for its age. Saw my first cotton field, a scrawny little patch, perhaps a try-out. The North Carolina roads are excellent, better graded and banked on the curves, better marked for guides and distances, than in Virginia. A higher gasoline tax for the roads, however.

Pinehurst seems deserted; perhaps because it is such a quiet place, and the houses and hotels are hidden, with their people, behind banks of low pines. I scented an expensive set-up, so located the Berkshire Hotel, a frame, ramshackle place, clean but old and unimproved. A fair dinner, reading my new book on Paine. Walked to telegraph office for a message to home. Attempted to read in the parlor before the fire, but three talkative women brought in their knitting. To my room, to write.

Last night, at Durham, I had a unique encounter in my exper¬ience. I finished my writing, got into pajamas, and was turning down my bed when my door quickly opened (I had thought nothing of its being unlocked), and a girl came in, banging against my toilet door and making me jump. I thought she had made a mistake in the room and would retire with blushes and apologies. Instead, she closed the door and came toward me smiling, and said, “Do you want a date?” She was pretty, well dressed, about 24, and looked like anybody’s sister. I, confused, said “No,” and she replied, “Why don’t you; I haven’t anything to do.” I walked her to the door, but was quite anxious. I had read of women rackets in hotels, where they scream and threaten blackmail; so I was relieved when I had her outside and the lock turned. I heard a noise in the next room, and a man’s voice, so concluded that she had visited my neighbor up the hall. Tonight, and after, my door will be locked.

Saturday, Feb. 18. Summerville, S.C. 227 miles

Slept well last night; Pinehurst is a good town to sleep in; a pattering rain in the trees by my window lasted all night, and reminded me of the woods at home. The birds, this morning, also were kin to mine. After breakfast, walked to the town post office. The town still seems deserted; a place for moneyed folk, French shops, and stores controlled by the corporation,-- but no people here to spend. Only a few commoners like myself at my inexpensive hotel. Went to the country club to play golf; a shower broke and rain settled in for the day. The courses, four of them, seem excellent; flat, but with heavy rough, many traps, smooth fairways, and small white sand greens with beautiful approach aprons which would do for anybody's putting greens. Asked at golf shop for Donald Ross, to give him Lady's regards, but he seems to be with a cold at home. Went back to my room and wrote letters and cards; sallied out to golf course when the sky brightened, but rain returned. Packed my things, had lunch, and started south.

Drove most carefully in the rain. I intend to keep up this unusual care in driving throughout the trip. The roads are nearly all new in South Carolina; smooth and straight, often for five miles without a bend. Mostly sand and pine down to Florence, S.C., then the soil seemed heavier. Saw more and larger cotton fields; corn and tobacco seem the other crops. Had the impression of a definite but gradual drop from a plateau; many marshes and bogs alongside the road; many rivers to cross by new bridges. The Santee River, about 50 miles out of Charleston, was most impressive; more than 5 miles of viaduct and bridges; river navigable in the middle, but broad stretches of it flowing at flood through dense woods, muddy and strong. I am not yet used to the sparse habitation in this old country. In addition to heavy rains, I had patches of fog to drive thru after dark. Decided to make Summerville, however late, for dinner, and go on to Charleston tomorrow. Found the Squirrel Inn, a modest, clean little hotel, off the main road. I'm the only guest here. Decided only to ask for supper,--ham and eggs, etc.-¬while I sized up the place; an old German woman and a belated virgin seem to be in command; fell for the quiet and the cheapness (1.00 for bed; .50 private bath; 1.50 for three meals). Sent a wire home, then to my room for writing. The air is sweet and mild, smelling of green things. As Lady told me, the houses have no cellars; built on brick piles, all open underneath the first floor. Yesterday at Pinehurst, tonight at Summerville, tomorrow at Charles¬ton, I am in Lady's old country. It seems all associated with her. By tomorrow night, however, I shall have crossed the frontier of her southern travel, and into a new world. She will have to listen to my descriptions then.

Sunday, Feb. 19 Savannah, Ga. 176 miles.

Drove about the town after breakfast, and then found the golf club. I can see Lady's love for the place, but it shows decay and dilapidation now; the rains have given it a dank look, and the depression has kept many of the houses and inns closed this season. Had a good game of golf; three local boys included me in a match; cost me 90¢ in a close finish. The course was boggy, and so was my golfing style. It was good to tramp around, smashing at the ball. The course was long, well trapped, greens quite bad; they had to discontinue 18 holes at Summerville; no tourists to support it. The boys gave me a corn-and-ginger-ale highball, and I hurried back to the inn and a good meal. Left for Charleston immediately after.

I engaged a guide to drive my car about the old city and tell me things of interest. I saw much of iron work, old homes, a beautiful water-front, etc. but I had heard too much in advance; I was greatly disappointed in everything. I won't bore myself by noting down everything I saw; the long list gave me no thrills. After I got rid of my guide, I went to the museum; rather poor excepting a state exhibit on the balcony; natural and cultural features were exploited, the best was an old apothecary’s shop full of medicine. I hope the rest of my expectancies for the old South don't fall as flat as at Charleston.

Left about 4.30, half intending to stop at the Magnolia Gardens on the way out, even though I had heard of extremely muddy roads and that the blooms were not out. When I pulled up for gas, I found I had passed the turn-off five miles back, so that settled me; one entrancing bally-hoo not touched by disillusion. A long, straight ride to Savannah; very few towns, mostly pines and swamps. I still drive under 45, fearful of my weak tires; the car is working well. Little does it know what is in store for it and me!

Prejudiced against Savannah; a noisy place, crowds of tourists at the Savannah Hotel, located on the public square. I must arrange to arrive in the late afternoon instead of night at my stopping places. I took a cheap room, without bath, in the annex; when I went up after dinner to write and get ready for bed, found radios and mixed parties adjoining my room, with only a thin door between. Went below, protested, spent an extra dollar, and moved to the top floor, 12 stories up, overlooking the harbor, with only the street noises to bother me. Had a good meal in the coffee shop; a long talk with my waitress about her husband's operation for gall stones. I really think I gave her a good time. Thanks to Lady’s vest pocket flask, I have been able to have a mild high-ball for dinner every night. Will write up here in my room until the town quiets down and I can sleep; what a contrast between this and Summerville. Saw many flowers and a few trees in blossom today. I am meeting spring more than half way.

Monday, Feb. 20. St. Augustine, Fla. 215 miles.

Dan is going to give me some teasing about my usual luck in trying to get a good night’s rest. In my new room last night, after I put out lights, I heard loud feminine laughter, continuous door ¬slamming, etc. through my door. Kept up for two hours, then I called the desk. By four o’clock I had made three complaints over the phone and one brief oration out into the hallway. Amid the girlish romping I frequently heard the squeaky voice of what I thought was a five-year old child. This morning, about 10.30 when I emerged, I met my enemy,-- a circus midget about three feet tall. To show that he didn't mind my complaints, as we were walking to the elevator, he kicked at the base of each door as he went along. There ought to be a law compelling extinction of such lice.

Walked about a few squares downtown, many little parks in the heart of the business section; the river small but busy; many signs of normal business. Breakfast in a deserted cafeteria; left for south about noon.

More long stretches of pine and swamps. Saw the hazards of Georgia driving, cows, sheep, goats and hogs all grazing on the roadside, no halters, and no fear of speeding cars. Saw several convict gangs working on roads and bridges, with armed guards over them; most Negroes, all working rapidly, faster than free, paid labor. Brunswick, Ga. is a pretty town; the land improves in quality towards the Florida line. Saw Lanier's marshes of Glyn; no more remarkable than other sea marshes or flats. Nothing to detain me at Jacksonville, Fla. Took ferry there and slid along perfect roads to St. Augustine; making fast time in order to reach the post office five minutes before closing time, at 6.00. But no mail from home. Keenly disappointed. Put up at St. George, old fashioned hotel, and very quiet. Left car for greasing; walked about the old fort in the twilight; peaceful and refreshing. This is a lovely old town, atmosphere of another world, similar to Bermuda; narrow lanes, small and tousled houses, all covered with flowers and under palm trees. Good dinner in cheap restaurant, then a walk with my cigar; the famous old Ponce de Leon hotel has a lovely tropical garden with fountains; a huge rococco building. Open, but rates too high to attract many. Opposite, dark and empty, the lavish Alcazar hotel. Wired home; back to room and to bed. Rained early in night, swell sleeping. I'm into hot weather now; drove with opened windshield today.

Tuesday, Feb. 21 Miami, Fla. 350 miles.

Up early. Before leaving St. Augustine, saw the oldest house, quaint and filled with relics; also inside the old fort. Went to post office again; disappointed. Left forwarding address. Drove down the edge of the Atlantic to Daytona; got out to see the driving beach, -- a public highway except when races are on. All Florida is the same, along the shore at least; strings of gaudy hotels, golf courses, citrus orchards.

Stopped at Palm Beach, thinking of Lady, to see Townsend's church; a beautiful place, the entire plant making a lovely religious unit. Open court, surrounded by cloisters; parish house and choir rooms, T's portrait very beautifully placed to dominate a guild room; lovely gardens in back (with ladies playing bridge therein). Went to beach to get a post card; sumptuous homes, expensive cars, etc. I couldn't stand too much of this. On to Miami, after nightfall. A huge, bewildering place. Located a hotel; everything crowded here. A late dinner. Too tired to write tonight. Didn’t sleep well; city lights, motor traffic, etc.

Feb. 22; Tuesday. Miami, Fla. 75 miles.

Miami is a mixed-up place; unbelievably beautiful, with its places along lagoons, huge oriental palaces, metropolitan hotels, yachts and cruisers; its cheap joints, and foul back streets, swarming with half-dressed tourists, another side of the picture. Rain showers in the morning; birds singing in the palms; half the population in bathing suits on the public beach. Went to crowded post offices, both at Miami, the main city, and Miami Beach, over on the ocean. Nothing for me on early mails; because of the holiday, must wait until tomorrow morning. Drove out on the shore drive to a lovely, deserted restaurant on the ocean, -- Sunny Isles casino. Ate well at table overlooking the surf. Spent most the afternoon on the beach; mostly gray and overcast, not tempted to swim today; read book and dozed. Was suddenly eased of the impulse to rush on, eating up highways and getting to other places. The warm weather, physical weariness, and the realization that I am on a holiday all attacked me. Wanted to play golf today, but put it off until tomorrow. Back to hotel for highball and chores; drove out again along the beach for a dinner at the same casino.

From talks with elevator boy and hangers-on, Miami is getting all the tourists this winter; prices from 751 to $50. a day in town; all here to buy sunshine. No matter how inexpensive, it is amazing how many people can come down just to rest and play. Perhaps most of them have no jobs, and can live as cheaply here as at home on their savings.

Wednesday, Feb. 23. Miami, Fla. 55 miles.

Wrote in my room after breakfast. Got my first mail from home at post office, after breakfast. I don't eat at hotel; walk over to the cafeterias on back streets. Went native this morning, left coat off and collar unbuttoned. Many wear bathing suits in streets. Later in morning, took my bathing suit and drove way out to a secluded spot on the beach and had a swell time. Water was warmer than the air, clean, and choppy. Felt like a real play-boy, floating in the water and watching a funny bird which I think is a pelican diving around me and coasting on the wind. Lay on the sand until I felt cold. In afternoon went to the Miami Beach municipal golf course; well laid out, flat, but with excellent greens and turf. Prices are not quite municipal: 1.00 to play and 1.00 for caddy; like private club; had better clubhouse and equipment than Indian Spring by far. Late in afternoon drove to the main beach and watched the swine enjoy the sun; saw very few normal people, and resented their littering about the ocean side. I felt a little indignant that such people could be loafing on vacations, as though they were in the same category with me.

Back to hotel for highball and rest. Feel fine for my day in the open. After dark, drove about and finally located dinner in an outdoors restaurant; had a homelike hamburger dinner. Then a puncture; and tomorrow must buy a new tire. Bought a new literary treat, The American Spectator, a literary newspaper and enjoyed the reading. Am taking my job of reading Creel’s Paine very languidly. Determined to stop eating lotus leaves and get on my way tomorrow.

Friday, Feb. 24. Ft. Myers, Fla. 175 miles

Up late; breakfast over in the town; went to Post Office in hopes that the missing St.Augustine mail would turn up; then back to room for packing and embarcation. Paid up at the hotel, and drove over to Miami Beach for a final look at the Atlantic, and to the local post office; there got my missing first letter, forwarded from St. Augustine. Now all's right with the world. Got new tire; the first of many, I guess. Left town about 1.30, headed into the Everglades. Got the disappointment of my life; I pictured a jungle of giant trees and glooms; a wide-open marshland, bright with sun, an occasional small tree, but anything but gloom. 'What a place for birds, fish, and snakes. The canal which ran beside a perfect strip of road, was teeming with fish; I could see them, some over two feet long, from the roadside. Every hundred yards on the road I saw a snake; either killed by autos or about to be; some over six feet, perhaps all moccasins. Because of the dead snakes, many buzzards were at work. Along the canal saw thousands of herons (I assume), blue-gray, pure white, and some quite black; all about 3o inches high, lean, but long graceful necks and bodies. Many ducks also, and smaller birds; kingfishers, etc. The long ride made the desolation impressive.

Saw the waters of the Gulf just at sunset. Ft. Myers is a charming, quiet town; homelike winter houses and no common tokens of the resort about it; I liked it all the more after Miami. A quiet hotel and a rain in the evening to make me sleep well. All these southern hotels have high ceilings and large, wood-blade fans in every room as a part of the chandelier; must be necessary in hot weather. Ate supper on a pier-like restaurant, after high-ball at room; sent a few cards; bed early.

Saturday, Feb. 25. Ocala, Fla. 268 miles.

My hotel had no restaurant in it, but the boy brought in my breakfast from a nearby restaurant, so ate in my room. The oranges here are simply wonderful; the conventional other items merely standard. 'While packing the car to leave, got talking with a traveling salesman of disinfectants about his dog, then to autos, then the southland in general; he urged me to stop at his pecan farm near Biloxi. When I referred to his “southern hospitality” he denied it; father from New York, mother from Wisconsin, and self from Missouri; proud of it. (I didn't stop at his farm, in spite of his written messages to his tenant; would have out into the heart of a day’s run.)

Up through the heart of agricultural Florida today; racing against the clock, and getting to Lake Wales at noon to hear the carillon of the Bok Singing Tower playing a recital; a marvelous thing; stone-work of pinkish hue; a highly colored grille at top of high tower, of tropical trees in metal; carvings of birds; even gargoyles at top were storks. All this set in marvelous natural gardens, mostly in bloom; alive with all kinds of singing birds. The bells played like an organ; they are tolled, trilled, loudened and softened at will. With the sunny orange groves on all sides of the hill, it was quite perfect. Lunched at refreshment stand in the park, then through more groves of citrus fruit, along lovely lakes and past farms to Ocala, just after dark. Stayed at a private home for a dollar; played the piano for the lady of the house after writing a letter, and to bed early. Driving all day in the open air makes me sleep well. I can't stay up much after dinner.

Sunday, Feb. 26. Crestview, Fla. 392 miles.

I really got going today; but only after a late start. Drove out to Silver Springs after breakfast; took a glass bottomed boat and saw thru the clearest water all manner of springs, caves, fish, turtles, etc. All very interesting, but I won't go into a guide ¬book description. Yesterday, forgot to make note, stopped at a reptile yard, saw snakes and alligators. Their keeper, a soft-spoken man of the woods, was even more interesting than his pets; he liked his animals, made friends with his 'gators and one large king snake; when asked if he ever let them get loose, he said no, because they were too hard to catch; never thinking of hazards to his customers. He also saw more money catching snakes and showing them for a dime than in farming back in Carolina. I streamed on, through Gainesville, Lake City, Madison, to Tallahassee where I got a wire from home. The capital is a pretty city, but not overwhelming. In the smaller towns, the city hall or county building is usually made from a much-duplicated pattern, seen all over the northern part of the state; the clock tower becomes monotonous on a long drive. Roads were perfect; after Tallahassee, left the citrus groves behind, but saw many pine woods being bled for turpentine. Ate supper after dark in a drab hole at DeFuniak Springs, then drove on until sleepy, stopping at Crestview; a country hotel, bitter cold, and quite deserted. A warm bath, drink of whiskey, and extra blankets from the son of the proprietress fixed me up; though I have aggravated my head-cold.

Monday, Feb. 27. New Orleans, La. 290 miles

Up early and drove to Milton, Fla. for breakfast, and sent a wire home asking for money. The first part of this trip ran me over the imaginary limit I imposed on myself. Hope I can save out in the arid west. This was a four-state day; left Florida for some bad roads in Alabama. At a gasoline station, before I got to Pensacola, Fla. had an interesting chat with some box-sitters about high taxes; one was the county commissioner. All complained that they had to get new state licenses for their autos that 70,000 cars would not be on the roads after tomorrow; they all concluded that we should defy the state, run the cars, buy gasoline, and save the country. The filling-station man favored this completely. Mobile is a big, bustling town, with many beautiful residences. Stopped for cigarettes at a downtown drug store, thinking to save money, and ran into a 4 c state tax. I am learning why we are having tax payer’s revolts now. Then on to Biloxi, Miss., with a lovely drive just on the edge of the Gulf for over 40 miles; lovely spacious homes fronting the water, most of them old and closed. Entering Louisiana, after crossing the Pearl River Bridge, I saw an arch spanning the road: “Hello Huey!” On the back of it read, “Goodbye Huey!” Crossed marshes and viaducts around the vast Lake Pontchartrain, and arrived in New Orleans about 5.00, in the midst of the daily traffic jam. Fought my way thru narrow streets to the Post Office, and got my prized letters from home; also money from telegraph office. Located the dingy Planters Hotel; found double rates on for the Mardi Gras tomorrow; the town was supposed to be crowded with visitors. As soon as I arrived, it began to rain, and ruined everything. The streets were decorated with lights and bunting, but they were quite empty before the rain really got going. A highball in my room, then to a restaurant attached to the hotel for a cheap dinner; the waitress was funny, a mixture of flippancy and misery; from Arkansas, married and with a baby, badly in debt when the local building and loan company crashed, and reduced to waiting on table after having been brought up in a Christian family; now she even swears without provocation; thought she'd end it by taking some ptomaine poisoning. Gave a quarter tip to cheer her up; the restaurant was a joint; police came in for the owner while I ate; an empty dance-floor in the middle of the room, no music, and most of the lights out to save money.

Tried to find some of the much-advertised festivity; found that the many balls in town were by invitation only and required formal clothes; went to a dance boat on the river; paid 35¢ admission to a large, much illuminated craft, with one entire deck a dance floor, with refreshment booths about, and a violent Negro orchestra. All sorts of people; the girls rather over-dressed; much flask drinking, though no fights. One of the officers told me the boat goes in summer up the Mississippi, stopping at each town as long as trade justifies. This is the successor of the show boat of old river days. I danced once with an impersonal sort of girl who was probably there to kill time in my fashion, then came back to hotel and to bed. Slept badly; street cars just under my window, auto horns, and street cries. I have had no more hotel adventures, but twice I have been told by colored elevator boys that they could get me “anything I wanted.” I saw none of the gay, “wide open” features of the city, though the rain probably closed up the town.

Tuesday, Feb. 28. Natchez, Miss. 238 miles.

Up early, determined to see the town. While at a miserable breakfast next door, with my same waitress spoiling my coffee, the rain broke forth again, a steady, willful downpour, ruining all chances of the Mardi Gras parades and street frolics. I checked out of the hotel, and drove up and down the narrow streets of the old quarter, sight-seeing in the rain; old two-storey houses, much iron work on overhanging balconies; little shops with old names and wares; old public buildings; and went inside the ancient cathedral, tawdry and anything but quaint. Groups of masked paraders and roughs braved the rain and made noise in the streets. Then started out of town; bad roads; stopping for an excellent sandwich lunch at a filling station out of town, under a levee. While the man replaced my auto horn, the woman in charge talked about river floods. Think of living constantly with the invisible river on the other side of a 20-foot embankment, gently sloping up, and making good grazing for all the cows that populate the neighborhood; realizing that the next flood might be the one to wipe out everything life has won.

Took a wide detour to Baton Rouge; roads are under construction right in my path. The lower half of Louisiana is more than half under water; long stretches of swamp and low muddy fields. The new concrete roads, the pride of every native, are all advertised as the great work of Huey Long, though the taxes may celebrate the work for many years to come. Baton Rouge is a pretty town on a bluff of the river bank. The sensation is its capitol; the finest in any state, signs boasted. Very modern in architecture, it stands like a Washington Monument over the entire countryside; about 25 stories high. All very swell, but with no very good reason for it. The rain let up this afternoon, and I decided to go up the river a little before turning west. Drove into Mississippi, through an old Indian trail, not at all according to my mental picture of flat cotton fields. Dense woods, deep ravines, and the windingest road I was ever on, but well graded and banked. Got to Natchez at dark, and on advice of a friendly filling station man, went to a cheap hotel, clean, good bed, and enthusiastic welcome, all for a dollar -¬with a private bath room large enough for a ball. Ate in a restaurant in town; awfully good food. Was charged a sales tax for it; also on hotel bill. Pretty town, and very quiet; wide streets, stores all very large. Scribbled off a note home and went to sleep before my head touched the pillow. I am much impressed by the friendliness and gentleness of the lower middle class folk I am meeting; and they do certainly appreciate my spending money.

Wednesday, Mar. 1. Monroe, La. 262 miles.

Up early, ate in town restaurant, and rushed down to the river landing to make the ferry. River rather narrow here, but with swift current; the boat points upstream and makes its way over sideways. Natchez is on a high bank, its steeples and lumber yards dominate the river.

While crossing, chatted with a most interesting farmer, Almills; at his suggestion, I trailed him up to Eudora, Arkansas, to see his place and have a meal with him. Followed the river north; flat farm country, all very wet and muddy; mules as plentiful as cows. It seems that at this time of the year everyone is splitting wood; darkies riding horses or mules like mad, and laughing for sheer animal pleasure.

My farmer had a lovely new home, and very proud of it; everything clean; electric range and refrigerator; running water and modern plumbing; bedrooms bright with colors and looking as if prepared for a bride; his wife beamed with pleasure over my appreciation. He has about 680 acres of river land; negro and white tenants; built house high above flood water level; has so much farm produce that he gives food away; has many bales of cotton in bonded warehouse; -- but no money. All these people swap for commodities. We had some good food together; talked taxes and what the country is coming to; regret¬fully I pulled away to head westward. I was impressed by a man who seems to have found out what life is about; he is kindly towards people, and is optimistic for the future. And he is sure of eating well, living in comfort and pride no matter what happens. As I got on towards the middle of Louisiana, saw the land get more rolling and better looking. Into Monroe just at dark; a surpris¬ingly modern town (never heard of it before) with beautiful new buildings; large office buildings and many new hotels. Noticed depression prices; many road houses advertise “poor boy” meals, some labeled "depression lunch"; and tonight I ate in one; for 15 cents I got two pork chops, fried potatoes, macaroni, beans, bread and butter, pie, and tea. Sent a wire home and tried to write in my room, but soon gave up and dropped asleep.

Thursday, Mar. 2. Dallas, Tex. 320 miles.

Morning papers announced the closing of all banks in Louisiana; a “holiday” -- with men on streets talking with anything but holiday faces. Got a wire from home, grinning happily; ate my wheat cakes and coffee (they're cheap and good for a long morning ride), then pushed on westward over perfect Huey Long concrete roads. At Shreveport saw the Red River, a muddy little stream, and realized I was getting into oil country because of the industry there. While at lunch, had the auto gone over thoroughly. Just as I left town, I violated my resolve and picked up a hitch-hiker; a little nervous about it, but without cause. He was an oil field worker, going into Texas in the forlorn search of work. The roads are infested with all kinds of men, begging for rides. He told much of himself, labor conditions, family problems, etc.

Entered the incredible state of Texas about two o’clock; was disappointed at first, rolling country, good farm land, pines and oaks; not at all like my imagination. Suddenly it changed, and came to the East Texas oil fields, about Longview. Roadsides littered with second-hand oil tools and junk, shacks everywhere, derricks all over the landscape, many acres of storage tanks, and rough looking citizens. Noticed many jets from the ground burning off natural gas in huge sheets of flame; with people dying of cold up north. A hundred miles farther and I began to get the sweep of open prairie land; many cattle farms, but cotton and cane fields also. Distances change; the road maps diminish the scales to accommodate Texas to their sheets of paper. A few miles of bad detour, but good roads in general. Saw a sign spread above the road near a filling station, begging me to stop and eat; later on another, “Next time stop and eat, or we’ll both starve!” The Texas towns have nothing to keep them compact; they spread out for five miles, even the smallest places; a very wide main street run thru them all, and cross-roads show signs to other towns at awful distances.

Got into Dallas after dark; excellent small hotel, room on top floor, all new and clean. The city astonished me; large, brilliantly lit up, a dazzling white way, large theatres, crowds of people, and at least a dozen metropolitan hotels, some more elegant than I have seen in the East. After I ate dinner in the hotel coffee shop, heard extras about all Texas banks closed today; walked over the city, getting route information at AAA and asked at Western Union about telegraphing money. There is some difficulty about sending money into states where there are no banking services for Western Union to draw on. Worried a bit, then decided it was all good experience, whatever happened.

Wrote letters in room until after eleven, then popped off to sleep. I hardly know myself these days, the way I can drop off in strange beds and new places.

Friday, Mar. 3. Lamesa, Tex. 347 miles.

What a day, in what a state! I think I got more thrill out of today’s drive than any thus far; it all lived up to what I expected of Texas. Slept late, and pulled out of Dallas at 10.00; reached Fort Worth, another surprisingly large and enterprising city at 11.00, and then left East Texas civilization behind. Saw a few more oil fields, then rolling country turned into somewhat mountainous; low hills covered with dwarfed cedars. The road curved in and out the hills; a few miles more and I was in wide prairie land. Shaggy steers tried to graze on dead yellow grass. Mesquite and sage brush, all bare, spread over the land like small peach orchards. I became aware of the sky; the land lay so low that the clouds stood out as the most important things to see. After I crossed foothills, came to great flat plains, with the horizon fifty miles away. The first token of a town out here is a high tank far off on the edge of the sky. One sees that long before houses are visible.

Had an excellent hamburger lunch in a filling station with the proprietor and his wife; they have their bed in the salesroom, their life is travelers and their gasoline and sandwiches; thought the depression a blessing in disguise, and spoke with great conviction about everything; a desolate village horizon for their lives. Afternoon through more open country; the clouds making huge dark purple spots on the landscape. Then began to lift upwards; by night was up 2000 feet. Saw my first mesa; a desolate table of land rising above the plains. Late sun lay directly on my road, blinding me. Then felt the desolation of twilight and dark on the open prairie. Not a living thing except crying birds; one large thing, perhaps an eagle, glared down from a hill beside the road. Reached Lamesa, a broad-streeted rather clean little town, after dark. Bought new tire, located the hotel; went to its cafeteria and ate my first hot tomales. The waitress had eaten them all her life, but could neither describe nor define them before I ordered. Waitresses in this country are all very friendly, and are amazed at a tip. I've gone down to a nickle with feeling of real philanthropy. Wrote in room; down for soda water (the faucet water is bitter) and to bed about 11.00, done up. I feel like an orphan, way out here in a forlorn country. Got off a wire home, because office was opened to report a basketball game.

Saturday, Mar. 4. Elida, N.M. 295 miles.

Leaving Lamesa this morning, picked up a square-shooting chap, an oil-well driller, going to Hobbs, N.M. to find work. Big talk together for 75 miles. Desolate plains country, poor grass, and with only one village, in 75 miles. Well driller is again Hoover; described him as only an oil man could. The oil town at Hobbs is a filthy place; red with dust. Gave my man a breakfast there, and pushed on, reaching Roswell after noon. Mail from East was not ready, ate lunch and shopped about town. Saw my first Mexican “greasers” here; the lunchroom talked Spanish entirely. Also, some Indians here, but they are undistinguishable to me. Roswell is an irrigated town, water in ditches from large artesian wells; all sorts of fruit and garden stuff, with many willow trees about. At Tatum, 65 miles away, I was hailed by a young girl with a suitcase, and took her to Roswell. For several miles of silence between us I wondered if I had done a foolish thing. She very cautiously began to talk; merely bumming her way back to town after a visit; evidently does this thing often. Land here more like a desert; saw my first cactus, and large mesas; in the far distance behind Roswell, the 71ite Mountains, shining with snow, like a low cloud on the horizon. Dropping into Pecos valley raised temperature to mid-summer heat; purple haze over the rolling land; 'Like my imaginative pictures and preconceptions.

Got mail at Roswell, and then headed north to French’s ranch, wondering about my reception. Land improved as I progressed; better grazing, and more houses off under the hills. They can be spotted best by locating windmills first. The wooden houses are rarely painted in this dry country, and blend into the haze perfectly. Met Ab French in the town of Elida, by asking at filling station. A robust, healthy chap; hadn’t received my letter about coming (it was in his box when we reached his place), but he urged me to come out. A new, stuccoed house; lovely family, three girls, the youngest a bright-eyed imp of ten; Mrs. French not well but very hospitable; her mother bearing the brunt of the cooking and the girls willing to share in chores. A hired man, a raw-boned Texan, ran the stock yards. After chatting, we went outside to look around; many yards and sheds, all of junk lumber (boards are very scarce in this grass country), but more than the average rancher has. Had to look at French's cattle; all handsome Herefords; dark russet with white faces and legs; short, blunt noses; stocky and strong, heavy bodies; their long winter coats were curled and fuzzy; they all looked chummy and friendly; big, wondering eyes, all looking alike and staring me out of countenance. The calves all bawling for more milk. A few Jersey milch cows looked gaunt and ratty beside these Herefords. Then I had to scratch all the prize bulls; ponderous giants, most of them titled and money winners. It was all so real and solid; the entire life of the ranch centering in the stock; their health, feeding, breeding. Ate a tremendous, home-cooked dinner; chatting by lamp light about everything. The Frenches all look up to big brother “W.C.” who has all the education. They are all fine-minded, solid people, like their Herefords. The older girls are in high school; the eldest, Anita, hoping for a conservatory course after graduation; both in the school orchestra; parents quietly proud of them. My room was the girls' room; daintily furnished, and with a swell feather bed. Went out for a night view of the wide plains; then to bed, about 10.00 (very late for the family) and to sleep by 10.03. Very cold tonight, but many warm covers.

Sunday, Mar. 5. Elida, N.M. 0 miles.

Up by 6.30, rather a sleep-over for the ranchers, but it was Sunday morning. Prodigious breakfast, and then the thrill of all. I was given the best horse, and Ab F. took me over the range, to watch the tri-weekly winter feeding. I soon got the hang of sitting in the hard cowboy saddle and overcame my shyness. I would bounce, however, whenever we broke into a trot. I nearly yelled with delight when we “lopes” -- the horse laying out his head and galloping free over the open range. We went from one pasture to another, each of about 1000 acres, each with its separate herd. Lloyd, the hired an, drove the mule wagon filled with cotton meal cake which was spread on the ground for the cattle; very nourishing in winter when grass is scarce. When we entered each pasture, the men would yell “whoopeeee”, and the cattle would come for miles on a fast run. I never knew cows could run so fast. Ab F. gave me a private rodeo; he roped some calves, was proud of the way his horse worked with him; threw a couple and vaulted from his saddle while the horse held the rope taut from the saddle horn, rushed to the bawling youngster, wrestled with him a moment, then set him free. They would jump away, shake, and rush into the herd for their mothers, while all the silent cows gazed like an audience. I wanted to rub each steer on the fuzzy forehead. In all we rode about eight miles, from lot to lot. I was very horse-conscious, but my animal was most considerate. During the afternoon I felt new muscles in my back and legs, a little chafed, but it all wore off. I'd love a month of this life. From the slight eminence on a horse, a twenty-mile view of plains is easily seen; quite cold this morning, with a few flakes of snow blowing in from the northern mountains.

An egg-nogg before noonday dinner. Incessant small talk. I played and sang a few nonsense songs to the smallest girl; went over big, and had to repeat for company at supper. Talked of taxes, mostly; also the early days of taking up ranching in the open country; the cowman's hostility to the crop-raising farmer, etc. In the middle of the afternoon, I got out my golf bag and sticks; set up two stakes on the pasture, and everyone played golf for the first time. That was something! The high school teacher of music came for dinner and to meet me; a good sort; also, a farm boy, suitor to oldest girl. He did worst at golf, but enjoyed it most, excepting Lloyd, who nearly broke my clubs. A mother and son, neighbors, came in for evening; made candy, talked small but well. Impressed by geniality and hospitality; the guests are always asked to spend the-night; any amount of doubling up goes well. Sleepy, but stuck it out until guests left, then to bed, worn out. Ab showed me a claim-holders dug-out hut this morning; the first type of residence when land was opened up here; a cellar with a roof was all their home. Ab lived in one himself years ago. Also saw the famous Jack-rabbits; one stopped twenty feet from my horse and watched us. Almost as large as the great airedale, Mr. Pete. Also saw adobe houses from Roswell north; earthen blocks, sometimes plastered over.

Monday, Mar. 6. Santa Fe, N.M. 298 miles.

French called me at 6.30; packed quickly, and left with thanks after a good breakfast. They even seemed to enjoy my visit. I’ll talk about it for some time to come. Drove northeast to Clovis, then due west, the country getting poorer and higher. Elida is about 4000 feet up. Wretched villages, and many miles of desolation; the monotony broken by distant mesas. In the early afternoon I turned north, at Encino; beautiful mountains in the distance; blue where wooded, and huge surfaces of snow. Hills began, with the car climbing all the time. The altitude makes my engine weak; my carburetor is set for sea-level conditions. Had about ten miles of snow-covered road. The hills heightened, and became small mountains. In the midst of a desolate timbered valley a tire went flat. Reached Santa Fe about 4.00; surrounded by mountains, looking rather fierce to the northward.

Went to Western Union for wire and money from home; they can only cash part of money order during bank closures, so took drafts for balance. They and all others tonight are glum over the closing of all banks in the country. Dickered about a new tire in three shops; losing an hour. Went to a new, quiet hotel; frightened away from their great show place; money is too scarce. Walked over the town; somewhat disappointed. All low buildings, nothing beautiful about the Indian dobe style; looks like mud huts. Even new buildings, such as the post office, theater, and best hotel (LaFonda) are in this mission-adobe manner. The old governor's palace, one storey high, now a museum, takes up one entire side of the public plaza. Indians and Mexicans everywhere; hardly a word of English heard on the streets. Don't like this kind of “foreign atmosphere.” Rode out on the ruins of Fort Marcy, on hill overlooking the sprawling town. A swell country for Indian fights. Presented a letter from Ab French to State Senator Mears; out, but he called me tonight and asked me to breakfast. Ate in a good restaurant, then to room for an evening of writing.

Tuesday, Mar. 7. Holbrook, Ariz. 350 miles.

Up early, went to LaFonda hotel, met Mears, and had breakfast with him there. A county-seat lawyer, turned politician, votes dry, long and lean, serious-minded. We were doing the right thing by our mutual friend, and he went to committees after we ate. I had thought of going up into the canyons and seeing some cliff-dwellings, but it was an all-day job. Left auto for repairs, and went to the museum instead, and studied pictures and models of the cliff houses. Lew Wallace wrote Ben-Hur while territorial governor here at Santa Fe. Also visited what was called the earliest church and oldest house in U.S. Didn’t go in; not much more than mud and very old wood.

Left town about 10.30, for Albuquerque; a gorgeous parade of distant mountains on either side all down the valley; then struck west, climbing hills again. More sand and less vegetation; getting towards the desert country. The towns are all poor, and Indians all over. They have been exploited and exploit the white tourist; their trinkets now are not in much demand. Saw some fine government schools run for their benefit. Up around Gallup, N.M. the red sandstone began to dominate; highly colored mesas, and always the rare purple haze in the distance. Patches of snow on hillsides, and distant mountain-tops completely covered. The air was cold when in the shade; ice and snow do not melt quickly, but the sun was very hot inside the car. This altitude requires adjustment. Also, the word desert used to mean flat stretches of sand; I must change that now.

Saw a long streak of lava formation in a dry valley; black, porous and forbidding. Crossed into Arizona, driving hard to make Holbrook just as night closed in. Roads vary from rotten construction detours to new asphalt; the dirt roads hold very well, but the dust is into all my baggage and car. I'll wait until I get into California before cleaning things up. I have a large pile of laundry awaiting attention. Late in afternoon, just as sun lay dead into my eyes on the horizon, I saw part of the Painted Desert; black and purple rock, some red sandstone, and white streaks of alkali; very much painted. But nothing to the sky after sundown tonight; one patch was deep flame-color, like a fire on the plains. To the south a solid pink sky behind deep blue and purple mountains.

Holbrook is a dirty, dusty town; stayed at a cheap hotel; supper in a cafe across the street. While unpacking the car, I asked the hotel keeper if I could get some good beer in town; he denied knowledge. Just as I was leaving the car, a dirty bum came towards me; I suspected a touch, and said that I was flat and spending borrowed money myself. He heard me sympathetically, then said, “If you want some beer, go over to the pool room.” I didn’t go; saving money to feed the car with gasoline; up to 28 c for ethyl here. After supper, wrote letters in my room, but didn't get caught up. To bed early for a good start tomorrow.

Williams, Ariz. 310 miles. Wednesday, Mar. 8.

A big day; I saw the Grand Canyon. Up 6.30; had a flat tire; a stone worked its way through my one remaining bad tire. Had it patched during breakfast; cleared town with its unpaved, dusty streets before 8.00. Soon struck paved road; lifted slowly out of desert country into rolling plains dotted with cedars; large mountains ahead. Soon was into hills, snow all about, but the road clear and dry. At Flagstaff, under Mt. Elden (in the San Francisco chain), drove through miles of beautiful large pines; more like Canada than my notion of Arizona; snow banks up to four feet high along the road. Went to post office at Flagstaff, but no mail from home; I beat the mail; couldn’t wait, so left forwarding address. Skirting more mountains, reached the turn-off for the canyon; 6o miles of rolling country, rising as I neared the rim; all covered with snow and large pines, -- and I thought the canyon a crack in the hot, sandy desert. Reach the government park at noon. Parking my car, I came on my first view unexpectedly; it startled me; the dreadful depth, the mysterious blue-violet haze, and the utter silence.

Ate at a Harvey lunchroom; then spent four hours on the rim. Walked out to one promontory; magnificent sweep east and west; a fine government station there, with a G. W. U. graduate in the Geological Survey service, in charge. Then drove along the rim drive, stopping at several places for special views; 26 miles out one sees over the end of the canyon into the Painted Desert; a lovely opalescence shimmering under the sun. Had a fright at one spot; my car stopped and took a very long time starting; deserted place, and 20 miles from any help. Dirt in gasoline.

I’m making no effort to describe the canyon; it is terrifying as well as beautiful; the age, silence, distance, all pile up on one. Saw the bed-rock of the earth itself; dinosaur tracks in rock, ferns of an inland ocean, et al. Left about 5.00; drove into Williams -- the worst town I’ve yet stopped in. Refused one hotel after inspection, stopping in my first tourist cabin place; all right, but rates high. A tasteless supper in a cheap cafe. Wrote in evening; plan to leave early and make the long desert ride into San Bernardino, Cal. tomorrow. Got a wire from home here.

Thursday, Mar. 9. Pasadena, Cal. 510 miles.

My biggest day’s work on the trip. I left Williams just after a visit to the Post Office in hopes of mail, about 8.oo. With no time out for meals and gasoline stops, I maintained an average of 40 m.p.h., gained an hour by crossing from mountain to coast time, drove 12 1/2 hours, and pulled up at the Constance Hotel here about 7.30. The two biggest events on the trip were crossing the Ute Mountains and the Mohave Desert. Coming thru the pass thru the San Bernardino mountains was no bad third.

Bad road, dusty, bumpy and under repair, across semi-desert country surrounded by distant pine-covered mountains over to Kingman. Then pavement all the rest of the way. I had heard nothing of the Ute Mountain region, so had the joy of discovery. It is almost as spectacular as the Grand Canyon; approached thru a wide desert, suddenly the road climbs, with the sharpest hair-pin curves like a roller-coaster. The mountains are all bare rock; reds, yellows, blue-blacks, and all bathed in the high-country violet haze; all these hills are jagged and dramatic in character. No rail guards the roads, and you can look over the auto fender down a thousand feet sheer. (I know Dan would have gotten out and walked.) Was all keyed up over the climb, but the descent into a dirty collection of mining huts called Goldroad was really terrifying, and the view a stunner; piles and piles of rock mountains, without a bit of greenery to hide the colors, extending a hundred miles, over the Colorado River into Nevada and California. Oatman, just thru the mountains, is a gold mining town; saw two of the ore-works. Stopped there for lunch; men not working, playing cards in back room of a drug store. Country got lower and flatter in the Colorado valley; crossed the bridge into California. What a difference in the two states; met wide, well-marked boulevard roads; signs of welcome, cheaper gasoline, people waving a greeting, and even out in the desert, men at work on the state highway. I expected to see a terrible wasteland, instead felt as though I were in a well-kept municipal park. Stopped at Needles, an attractive desert town, with trees, tidy homes, and cheerful people. Then 200 miles of desert; not the flat, barren country I had anticipated. Mountains and hills all the way; the flat country merely wide valleys between; occasional good views from elevations; several volcanic cones with miles of black lava on the ground; many little towns, which are really gasoline stations and soft-drink stops. State auto inspection stop; instead of being officious and irritating, the men made it a pleasant visit, giving helpful auto directions. The San Bernardino mountains were a surprise; the approach from the north is a very gradual plateau lift, then suddenly into the Cajun Pass, and miles of mountainous tumult spreads out, with the valley very much lower on the southern side; a real surprise. Skipped by the outskirts of the city of San Bernardino at dusk, then a broad boulevard ride into Pasadena, with the moon behind me and citrus orchards on either side. The air was like a summer night; I could smell the dew on the fields, and the sweet dampness of trees, like at Southport. For the first moment on the trip, I wasn't a lone stranger; there was a homelike feeling. Also, I realized that this day’s ride was the turning point; I couldn't go any farther west. The next thrill, after visiting the coast, is my ride home.

This hotel is in the center of town, very new and clean, and gave me a $17.50 rate for the week; private bath, and all lovely equipment. This is the best room I've had on the trip. After superficial washing, went to Western Union; they will cash my three drafts at $20 each day, fair enough. Wired home, ate a good dinner, a big bath washing Arizona off my hide; a swell bed and all in from my driving.

Friday, Mar. 10. Pasadena, Cal.

Breakfast in coffee shop. Hotel people referred me to a washwoman who sent for my things. A war is on in the dry-cleaning business; had one suit pressed, another completely cleaned, for 70¢. Took car to station for lubrication and cleaning, with a new tire. Got hair-cut and shine. Received letter from home, forwarded from Flagstaff, and feel swell. The business section here is pretty, clean, things cheap and a feeling of cheerful vitality even with banks closed. To my room, and wrote until lunch time. Like a June day; a cat-bird in trees under my window is singing his fool head off; a haze makes the Sierra Madre line of mountains, just west of town, a deep blue invitation. I’ve gone Californian!

THE MIDDLE

Friday, Mar. 10. At Pasadena, Cal. 50 miles.

Thus begins my second chapter; traveling suspended, and a phase of sabbatical labors sets in. Ate at lunch counter; everything good, inexpensive, and plentiful here. One reason for liking California: on the counter was a huge bowl of radishes, spring onions, and celery, with written invitation to eat as much as I could, free of charge. I did. Got oar, and drove out to Hunting¬ton Library; beautiful classic building in midst of tropical gardens, with the Huntington residence, now art gallery, just over a large lawn. Met the librarian, secretaries, clerks, curators, etc. for two hours, and was taken about the stacks. Not exactly overwhelmed by their resources or facilities; all very good, but I’ve seen the equal. The staff didn’t seem to have everything caught up to date on organization; indexes and catalogues---not yet complete; perhaps just a trifle of complacence on the part of everyone. There are no readers or specialists in my field at work here just now.

Now for the real contribution of the day. Returned to hotel in late afternoon, undressed and lay on bed, getting into Creel's Paine, making notes, and absorbing myself. In the midst of luxurious, academic preoccupation became aware of the bed bouncing up and down. Without looking up, I thought one of my dogs was underneath, scratching himself. Looked up, realized where I was, and noticed the lamp and wall mirror waving about crazily; hearing a funny kind of rumble, and noting the quiver and sway of the building, like a large ship stagger¬ing under the smash of heavy seas. An earth quake! I was both scared and amused; what a stunt for California to give to me. Grabbed my clothes, dressed quickly, intending to get out of the building before it collapsed. I am on fifth floor; its a steel building, and got the impression of waving about, extreme pliability, etc. I ran downstairs, out into street; everyone was on the jump, but not knowing which way to turn. Hard to run away from an earthquake. All this about 6.00. Chatted with whomsoever, mostly the hotel barber and elevator boys; told that hotel was earth quake-proof (if there is such a thing); no immediate evidence of hysteria or panic. Went up to room again; wrote cards to friends, taking it as a huge joke put on for me, a rare novelty to tell folks back home about. More tremors; one about every ten minutes; each diminished in force. An hour or so later, went to eat; by then radio had announced terrible destruction and death on the coast. People were plainly scared then; didn’t know: there were so many old ladies in this hotel until I saw them milling about the corridors. The great event broke barriers of formality, everyone talked to everybody.

Dinner in a quaint tea-room run by an old couple from England. Was urged by people at hotel to go to a rare thing in Hollywood; a Russian benefit ball, for veterans of the old imperial army. A large colony of former aristocrats in Hollywood. Didn’t want to dance, but heard they put on a good show; so trailed a party thru Los Angeles boulevard to the Legion auditorium at Hollywood; all one large city, with imaginary boundaries to denote different towns. A sort of vaudeville show was given; sat with a middle-aged doctor, his family group and friends taking me in cordially. Excellent group singing, some so-so dancing, but plenty of folk music. The doctor was with the Red Cross in Siberia, and knew many of these people; all were big pumpkins in their day, now hanging on here for extra jobs in movies, and very little of that. Men were very interesting types, felt as though in a foreign city, say a quarter in Paris. Women, fat and decayed, or young and exotic; all spoke in Russian, of course. A buffet supper in basement, with a cabaret entertainment; all drank tea and ate huge plates of refreshments. Then dancing upstairs; fun to watch, danced with the doctor's quaint sister, timid and flattered old lady.

When I got back to hotel, past midnight, found that people had come in from Long Beach; timid women sleeping on lounges in lobby, and groups all moved down from the higher floors of the building. There had been more shocks, but in the basement of the building of heavy concrete at Hollywood, we had not felt them. I was sleepy, and not apprehensive enough to stay awake. Slept without a conscious quiver until 10.00 next day.

Saturday, Mar. 11. Pasadena, Cal. 25 miles.

Took auto to repair shop after breakfast; valves burned out because adjusted too snug before starting trip. Was taken out to Huntington Library by mechanic. Began with Paine manuscripts; some good material. Read from noon until 4.15, with sorties onto the lawn for cigarettes; all lovely and quiet, and the spell of quiet reading and copying was good for me. I've done precious little of that for a long time; felt virtuous as well as peaceful. Wish I were in the midst of a sharp research problem, knew what I wanted, and had a long spell of study-time out here. I’ll have a fat batch of notes by end of my short stay; maybe of real value in later work on Paine.

Assistant at library drove me back to town for auto; its now a different car. Celebrated with two highballs before dinner; ate in good restaurant, and bought excellent cigars. Drove to edge of town, toward the mountains, and smoked in the moonlight, thinking that life was often a very lovely thing. Bed early; swell place for sleeping.

Sunday, Mar. 12. Pasadena, Cal. 38 miles.

Last evening I invested 15¢ in a half-bushel of oranges; small but tree-ripened. I heard that at road-side stands some sell oranges 10 dozen for 10 cents. The fruit stands are all over the city; the large fruit and vegetable stores here have open fronts, no windows, and the most gorgeous display of green stuff I've ever seen. I munch an orange or two every few minutes in my room and the large sack is still quite full.

A lovely day today, restoring myself and getting into the academic life again. Wrote letters, cards and notes in the morning. Read several articles, finished some reports carried away from the first semester's work at school, and read Creel's Paine. This book gears in well with the manuscripts I'm reading at the Huntington.

After lunch, had a faint desire to play golf, but made it a drive instead; thru residence districts, magnificent homes and gardens, with trees and flowers I've never seen before. The palms here are better than in Florida. Wanted to drive up to the observatory at Mt. Wilson, which I can see from my window, but there were clouds on the summit, and I knew I’d waste my time. Cherry trees are in blossom, some that look like those in Washington, others with a deep red bloom, like our Judas tree. The colors are stunning. Drove thru parks, then up one of the smaller mountains just outside town; magnificent view over to Los Angeles and along the valley.

Met some nice people at hotel; the suite of Elsie Robinson, the feature writer for the Hearst syndicate; secretary, manager, nurse, etc, and all ate dinner together in dining room. Her manager is General Fremont's son; very entertaining. Asked me to go with them for copy into the quake region at Long Beach tomorrow; may do it. Chatted in lobby; read in room, and in bed by 10.00. I like this break in my road work.

Monday, Mar. 13. Pasadena, Cal. 15 miles.

Day began with a bang; was awakened by another earthquake; not as bad as the big shook on Friday, but the worst we had in the intermission, which gave us many slight rumbles and quivers. The earth evidently takes a long time to settle itself down into a new set of creases and faults. Put on the light, located my pants, then went to sleep again. I feel a seasoned veteran now.

After breakfast, to the Post Office and got mail from home. Then to Huntington Library. The Robinson party was to have called me if it went to Long Beach, but I got no word, so perhaps will go tomorrow. They can get me thru the guards with their press privileges; martial law still over there, and people still coming up to Pasadena for safety. A lovely day at the library; the assistants know me now and are very pleasant. Worked today on correspondence about Paine material which was given to Conway; must see later how he used it in his work. Ate lunch at the cafeteria there, in the former billiard house, back in the lovely gardens of the Huntington estate. The big residence is now the art museum, and the gardens some of the loveliest I've ever seen. Good, home-cooked food for lunch; gravy that might have come from home. Four-thirty is closing time, but all materials are called in at 4.15; came to hotel; got anxious telegram from home, so answered, feeling negligent. I had hoped that no alarm would be felt because Pasadena was not mentioned in newspaper accounts of disaster. A pair of work gloves was stolen from my car; reported it at repair shop, and they promise to reimburse as rather than have name on insurance claim. Good plea, I made; a package of cigarettes also will be included, for they also were looted. Back to room and wrote a while.

Ate dinner over in town at cafeteria; read newspapers; out here everybody (in papers at least) is for Roosevelt; all like the feeling that something aggressive is being done. Back to room, chatted downstairs with hotel people. Many funny episodes, showing hysteria over earthquake. Pillowcases stuffed with clothes to be thrown out of windows; people huddled into downstairs rooms where shocks would not be so severe, etc. Read Paine; to bed by 10.00. I'm a seasoned sleeper now; don't think that even Dan would criticize me.

Tuesday, Mar. 14. Pasadena, Cal. 10 miles.

Another good day at Huntington Library. After breakfast down stairs, to post office and got no mail; drove out to Huntington. Finished up all the Paine Mss. today; there are probably many valuable items in Revolutionary collections, but I cannot go into all of them on this visit. The catalogue is not complete, God knows when it ever will be. After lunch, at the library, read in rare book room; some early Paine items. Quit at 4.00; to post office again, with no success. I'm expecting a letter from Art Simon; hope nothing will prevent my going to Seattle to see him.

I still marvel at the flowers and gardens of Pasadena. All the homes, simple or sumptuous, are buried in almost tropical gardens. The colors exceed those of the East, even in mid-summer. Most of the homes are bungalos, very clean and inviting. The people on the streets all seem athletic; youngsters dressed for tennis and other sports.

Pleasant dissipation this evening; invited to join Miss Robinson’s, sister at a dinner party way out in the hills passed Claremont. The press-trip to Long Beach, to view the disaster didn't come off. Mardelle Robinson is a dean of women and vocational director in the school system here and her escort was a former superintendent; good egg, quiet, and knows this country well. He did graduate work at Columbia; we had many things to talk about. (He soared me about the hazards of the snow and mud from salt Lake City thru Wyoming.) Also with us, a young, attractive secretary to Elsie R. the writer, and intimate friend of Mardelle R’s. I rated inclusion as the big cheese from Washington, working on some magnum opus or other. Drove 35 miles, after I gave them all a highball in my room, to a combined Little theater and dining house, at Padua, not far from Pomona College. The place was most attractive; white brick and heavy beams, like a Mexican ranch house. Waitresses were Mexican girls; sang native songs to guitars when not serving. In no sense a road-house; nothing flashy. More an artist colony. Talking with the hostess, she told of the playhouse adjoining, and said players were inside rehearsing a new play; mentioned the directress,-- Mary Blaisdell, one of my G.W.U. students, who used to assist Kathrine Brown when I bossed dramatics. She came out; jolly chatter, met her husband, heard her successes and troubles, and am now to try to bring them both back to Washington. Good meal; drove home slowly, in and out foothills, with lights of towns twinkling below; a swell moon, etc., but I got sleepy, and my feet were terribly cold. Bed after midnight.

Wednesday, Mar.15. Pasadena, Gal. 20 miles.

Early this morning, a long drawn out quake awakened me. I had thought that this was all over, but this was nearly as severe as the first one. The corner of my room shows plaster cracks where the sway of the building broke it. By tomorrow night I’ll be out of the region. A good day. After breakfast in the coffee shop, to post office (nothing), then to the Huntington. Worked on early editions of Paine and gathered some John Wise material. I ate lunch with a group of library workers in the tea house on the grounds; big talk about the desirability and success of civilization; got quite serious and ended nowhere. A good group of men. Finished up with the books I felt I simply had to see, then got an admission card to the galleries and museum. What treasures! From the Ellsmere Chaucer, to ms. of Franklin’s Autobiography; Magnificent paintings, tapestries, sculptures, etc. The art collection is probably made up of even rarer items than the books and manuscripts. Gainsborough, Romney, etc. by the scores of canvasses. Most of the paintings and art objects are in the private mansion of the late Mr. Huntington, just across the lawn from the Library. I think this collection would equal that of the Metropolitan, Corooran, and Freer combined. Housing it in this home rather than a formal museum gives it more charm. Turned away from Huntington, without any farewells. Will write a letter to the Librarian, as a more economical way of doing it.

Got two letters and my missing pair of bedroom slippers (left in New Orleans), Art Simon and Charlie Cole both impatient for my coming. Had auto checked at repair shop. At hotel, another letter, from home, waiting for me. All’s right with the world now. I’ve had a good visit, with profit and rest, and excitement from earthquake, in Pasadena, and am now anxious to move on. Somehow I regard this as my mid-point, and that tomorrow begins the return. Actually, I'll be getting a little further from home as I go north, but it means the wind-up.

Ate supper over in town, drove out to Altadena to look down on the valley twinkling with lights while I finished my cigar; returned to hotel and wrote until bed-time. I’ve written more words on this trip, with nothing else to do of an evening, than during a whole year at home.

Thursday, Mar. 16. Santa Maria, Cal. 205 miles

Back on the long trail again. After breakfast at hotel, packed up and paid up; left about 10.30. Stopped at Post Office; left forwarding address, and wound about through one suburb after another, along the beautiful Wilshire boulevard in Los Angeles, to the University of California, Los Angeles Branch. A brand new plant; some of the grading and finishing up still to be done. Met Director Moore, the head of this branch, with my letter from President Marvin. Excellent reception; he took me to lunch at the student union; chatted about politics chiefly. He’s well pleased with the start Roosevelt has made. Showed me the union building, the beautiful library, etc. The buildings are of brick, ornamentation in the Italian manner, with brick; general style Byzantine, and very gratifying. The ubiquitous Spanish not seen here, and it's a relief. This institution does no real post graduate work, and its courses in American Literature are perfunctory. The faculty members were not in, so didn’t wait.

Drove to Santa Monica, and there got my first sight of the Pacific. A beautiful boulevard goes for over a hundred miles northwest along the edge of the ocean. Many resort places alongside, but few signs of life. Much state highway construction work, however; an employment relief project. Had what would be called rain anywhere else; it was referred to here as a mist, however. California guards its climate well. I was amazed at the mountains. I had thought that they would begin at least a few miles back from the water; but they rose, almost like cliffs, from the roadside. The surf was beautiful. Passed through several oil fields along the coast. Some of the derricks were a quarter-mile out in the ocean; many were being pumped. Long piers, with tanks on them beside the wells, led out from the shore. This would make a Pennsylvania oil man stare.

Passed through Santa Barbara about 5.00; drove out to see the old Spanish mission there. A good-sized church, with a monastery; still in use. All very peaceful and quaint, but also not old enough to be awe-inspiring. The town is a miracle of cleanness and beauty; a lovely harbor and sea-drive. Gradually hit inland; through lovely valleys between the mountains. The sun was out and large masses of low clouds were sweeping up the hills. The new grass is low, looks like a golf course over the countryside. Large batches of yellow daisies everywhere. Towards dark I had smooth flat country with a straight road. Arrived in this little town at 7.00; quiet and clean; all the town stays on a two-storey level, with streets broader than any in Washington. Ate at a lunch counter, then located a clean, new hotel, advertised with Simmons beds. Rooms 1.50 on second floor; 1.25 on first floor; clerk said it was for no very good reason, but travelling men wanted a little cheaper rate. I'm down with them tonight.

Friday, Mar. 17. Berkeley, Cal. 325 miles.

Got an early start; in the car just before 8.00, after a rotten breakfast at a cafeteria. My bag of oranges came in handy; ate several before starting out. Spent the morning driving through pastoral country; farm lands, with large fields of vegetables well under way, good pastures, and everything looking prosperous. Host of the time was in the Salinas river valley; with long lines of mountains on either side. From what I have seen of California thus far, I should guess that one could stand at no point without seeing mountains. Large eucalyptus trees, with bare trunks and shining leaves, all over this mid-state region. Flowers are out; yellow daisies, buttercups, and above all, wild poppies of a burnt orange color, Saw acres of them, up on the foothills, bright gold against the new green of the pastures.

Just before noon, drove out of my way to Monterey, to see the old Spanish capital of the country; some fine old houses; a beautiful view of the bay from the fort there; the house in which E. L. Stevenson stayed, old customs house, first theater in the state, etc., etc. Ate lunch there, then drove around the bay to the edge of Santa Cruz, in through the mountains to San Jose. On this drive saw my first big redwood trees; I want one for Southport. The wood is used for fenceposts all about; they evidently cut a large tree into 6-ft logs and split it a hundred times.

From San Jose the suburbs of the San Francisco region began; after nearly 50 miles of it I got to Berkeley; found Charlie Cole's apartment. In his absence, the manager let me in; found a letter from home on the desk waiting for me.

Charlie and his roommate, a stocky good-natured boy, Bruce, made me welcome. Bruce’s girl came in, and they all cooked a steak dinner, while I had a highball. Sat about chatting in the evening. Slept on a couch; the two boys in a double bed (in-a-door) right beside me. Awfully tired from driving.

Saturday, Mar. 18. Berkeley, Cal.

The boys got breakfast while I had bath and shave. They went to an early class, and I got into the kitchen and washed dishes, last night's also, scrubbed the linoleum floor, washed dish towels, and laughed to think of myself earning my board. I entered the pool with the boys today, however, and I'm paying my way.

We three went out the main highway some ten miles to the Oakland Municipal golf course at Chabot Lake; had a good game. Very hilly, and a long course. Beautiful views over the hills; San Francisco Bay, etc. The sun was bright, with a cool wind. It was good to be walking on grass again. Back to town; marketing with the boys; they cooked an excellent dinner. Three college girls next door came in, bringing part of their dinner along; they also helped with the dishes. (One of the girls is the daughter of the house next door, and let me put my car in one of the garages; a real saving.)

Smoking, highballs, and chatter. Went to telegraph office and sent a wire home. Charlie's girl, Lois, came in and we three talked school, life, and what-not, until midnight.

Sunday, Mar. 19. Berkeley, Cal.

A big day. Charlie was entered in a city tournament, had to tee off at 8.00; we got up at 6.00, drove thru deserted Berkeley out onto a pier 3 1/2 miles long; took the ferry across the bay. Ate a good breakfast on the boat. Then thru San Francisco, out on an ocean boulevard (gorgeous surf piling in) to Harding Park. I caddied for Charlie, and he won his match. I played the last three holes with the contestants, won a 30¢ syndicate on the last hole (with Charlie’s helpful missing of his last putt) and made enough money for lunch. With these boys here money is a rare article; almost ludicrous the way we count nickles. I’m flat broke tonight; but expect a telegraph order from home in the morning. A rare day of .warm sunshine; San Francisco did not put on one of its famous fogs for ma. We ate a hamburger lunch, and then went sight seeing. Drove thru the Presidio grounds; lovely view of Golden Gate and the hills about the bay. Through Chinatown; many streets of a foreign city; just a few blocks away, a large Italian section; around the block from that, the Mexican quarter. Charlie then showed me some of the hills in the city; a Jones street so steep that he could not go up it in second gear; one street with no sloping sidewalk; just steps up for an entire block. What a place for free wheeling. Drove to Twin Peaks for a view of the city, then parked the ear for a walk about Chinatown, looking into shop windows, etc. Wanted to attend the Chinese theater, but found it was only a musical program today; so went over to the large movie district and saw Maedchen in Uniform; the dialog all in German, and one of the most interesting and artistic films I've ever seen. We also drove thru the old Barbary Coast region of the city; few of the old houses remain after the earthquake and fire. Then to the great local institution, Lucca’s, for dinner; a dollar dinner of the finest and most bountiful Italian dishes I've ever had. After eating all possible, the waiters bring boxes so that remaining delicacies may be taken home. On the way to the ferry to Berkeley, stopped at the old fish wharf, saw the fleet of fishing boats, and huge caldrons on the sidewalk in which all sorts of seafood are cooked and sold. Home to the boys' apartment, and after a highball and bath, to sleep. Very tired and groggy; but felt I had been thru quite a day. There was nothing left to see in San Francisco; and Charlie is a swell companion in this sort of thing. Called and connected with my cousin Paul Windrem; eat with him and others of the family tomorrow night.

Monday, Mar. 20. Berkeley, Cal.

Slept late this morning; Charlie had returned from his morning class before I got up. Breakfast “at home”, then wrote until 11.00. Went to telegraph office for money; no result. To the Post Office, nothing. Then to the University; met the provost, Dr. Deutsch; pleasant reception, etc. None of the men in the English department was in during lunch hour or early afternoon. Back to Cole’s apartment; met one of his friends, Louie, a boy who was raised on a cattle ranch in the southern part of the state; loaded with local lore and legends, with a great knowledge of the mountains. We talked for several hours; early bandits, railroad feuds, old San Francisco, etc. Then wrote a letter to Marvin in late afternoon; a sort of birds-eye view of what I've been doing.

My cousin Paul Windrem came at six; his mother (Cousin Emma) and sister Annette were in the ear. We collected Robert, a brother, and Norma, Stanley’s wife; all went to a hotel and had a good dinner. They all sort of sat back and put me on stage; I gave a monolog on my trip; reports of everyone’s health and well-being back east, and had a good time. Then we drove over to Oakland and spent a few hours with my cousin Percy and his wife; smoking and pleasant talk. They are all nice folks. There’s a lot of good stuff in Paul which doesn't come out in the first few hours of acquaintance.

Then Paul drove up to the top of Grizzly Peak, back of Berkeley, for the night view. The lights of San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley, and a half-dozen smaller towns about the bay, spread out at our feet; we could see more than fifty miles, so far that the street lights winked like stars. Back to bed about 1.00.

Tuesday, Mar. 21. Berkeley, Gal.

A fine day; took ferry to San Francisco, eating breakfast on the boat, drove through the city, and down the Bayside Boulevard forty miles to Palo Alto. Stopped and lectured by a friendly cop in the village for going too fast; two people had recently been killed and they are very strict. To Stanford University; a sprawl of one-storey buildings connected by cloisters; rather a disappointment. Met the former acting-president; President Wilbur was busy welcoming Hoover back hone this morning. Was shunted over to the library, met the director, Van Patten, an enthusiast who told me about his budding American collection; mostly recent literature, but some good things; a fine O’Neill set, with correspondence, etc. He runs a little press for art printing. Professor Hall was finally located, came in and welcomed me in his quiet, mild manner; an old man, but an interesting scholar. We ate lunch at the union, talked about his work in N.E. probate records, looking for old book titles, et al. Then he drove me about the grounds, the student golf course, and the rest of the Stanford estate of 8,000 acres; telling me of the family and history of the school. Saw Hoover’s modest home on the hill; a good place to bite one’s finger nails and ponder and regret. Drove then to his home. Mrs. Hall very hospitable had letters of my coming; urged me to stay over, etc. Then was persuaded to plan a trip to Yosemite before going north; got AAA information thru Dr. Hall; back to university, got my car, and raced into San Francisco. Drove to Paul W’s house where he is boarding; met Stanley there, a fine looking, intelligent boy. We ate with the family; the Stevensons, an old family, evidently of former wealth, living in a beautiful old mansion. In the evening, sat about the fire and talked, chiefly Mrs. Stevenson. Later a girl, evidently living there, came in; a flap-doodle kid from G.W.U. who knew all the campus spirits; she amused the Californians and embarrassed me, lest the others think her a typical product. Stanley and I took the auto ferry, at 12.50 back to Berkeley. The amazing rolling and pitching of the bay boats is like that of a liner out in mid-ocean. I wondered a moment tonight if I were going to be seasick. The trip lasts only twenty minutes, however. Back at the apartment, Charlie agreed to make the trip to Yosemite with me on Thursday; we are going to try to do it in one day. Then off to Seattle on Friday.

Wednesday, Mar. 22. Berkeley, Cal.

Getting used to my hard, cold, day bed; had a good sleep till 10.00 this morning. Went to the university, attended Whipple’s lecture to a class of about 400 in American Lit; then to the faculty club with him for lunch and shop talk; at it for an hour. They are not doing very much in my line out here; I’m beginning to think that G.W. is already in a position of some importance in American literature. I had thought of seeing other professors; but my talk with Whipple discouraged me; not enough special interest in my field. Back to Cole’s apartment; dawdled in afternoon. Drove over town, saw stadium, chatted with Charlie's neighbors, some college girls who lend the boys cooking things, and make Charlie coach them for exams. It’s a funny, scrambled colony of college people in this neighborhood; instructors and students all held in a chummy friendship. The girls cooked an apple pie for dinner for the three of us. Wrote in afternoon; catching up with my neglected letters and notes. We plan to get up before dawn tomorrow for our run Into Yosemite. Louie came in in the late afternoon; may go with us tomorrow, and he knows everything about the country. More talk with him about old California. Ate supper early; a Mexican dish of beans, peppers and pork; excellent.

After supper, Charlie and I vent next door to the girls’ apartment; they made us an apple pie (very good) so we had desert with them. In return, two of them, English majors, made me give them ideas for a term paper in their courses; fair enough. Funny exercise, to be talking Shakespeare and Chaucer criticism extempore. In bed by 9.50.

Thursday, Mar. 23. Berkeley, Gal. 450 miles.

A heroic day; from 3.50 a.m. to 11.30 p.m. Up in the dark; dressed hurriedly with Charlie Cole, warm clothing; gulped a light breakfast; to Louie’s hotel and found word that he could not come with us to Yosemite. We rolled through deserted streets, past Oakland, Hayward, and turned east into open country. Watched the sky turn to a blue, then pale green, later a pinkish yellow, and then the sun. We struck out at 50 m.p.h. in my oar, through the level San Joaquin valley, all irrigated orchard and vegetable land, formerly dry cattle-grating land; dipped south to Merced, there buying chains, to be prepared for snow. Bad a second breakfast about 8.00. At Merced saw the largest peach orchard in the world, a Del Monte brand spread, 8 miles long and don't know how far back from the highway it extended, without a single gap in the orderly trees.

East of Merced the land began to roll, then grazing country; later foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada range, covered with small live-oak trees. Then tremendous hills, rolling sharply, with a twisting road with steep grades for us to follow. Behind them the real mountains; up in the trees we could see lots of snow; the roads were clear, however. About 40 miles from Yosemite we passed thru the Mother Lode and Comstock Lode gold region; several places worked up by Bret Harte and Mark Twain lay in these mountains. The real literary center, however, lay on the other road to the north, which was not open to Yosemite at this tine of the year. Saw several large nines in operation, many small camps of men washing out gold from the streams, etc. I learn that unemployed come into these parts nowadays, because they can pan out about $1.50 a day rather easily, and get along until times pick up. By the time we had gotten through the mountains back of El Portal, and up to the gates of the park, we already had enjoyed enough scenery to justify the trip.

Paid $2.00, and entered the park; the mountains gradually becoming bare rocks, and sticking up almost straight from the floor of the valley where our road lay; the valley narrowed into a canyon, and suddenly we saw El Capitan, the monster rook rearing up more than 5,000 feet sheer, before us. This was the beginning of a long series of thrills. The floor of the wide canyon, heavily wooded with big redwoods, white pine and fir, was bordered on both sides by huge piers of solid granite, average height more than half-a-mile, straight up. The only way we could appreciate the magnitude was to spot some large tree growing in a crack or on a ledge. A string of falls poured down. Can’t give a detailed account of all this; each experience and view throughout the day was a little better than the preceding.

Went to the government lodge in the middle of the valley for a good lunch; to the museum, where the resident director pointed out the geological story back of the formations, then drove about, sight-seeing. The main Yosemite falls. Mirror Lake, Half Dome, etc. Plenty of snow on the roads in the valley, but no danger of getting stuck. We parked the car, took of coats, and hiked up a long, snow-covered trail, 2 1/2 miles, to see Vernal Falls, the main branch of the Merced River, come pouring over a granite cliff. Charlie a good companion for this sort of sight-seeing; with me in keen excitement over each beautiful view. Then we motored up a road to the mouth of a new tunnel out of the valley, to park and look back for a panorama of the entire show; simply unspeakable. On our way back, getting ready to leave for home, we had the best show of all. The sun was low, on our backs, striking full on the magnificent Bridalveil falls; so high that the water pouring over the top of the precipice lands below only as white mist. This mist blew in the wind, slowly from side to side and the spray caught the sunlight and made a vast spectrum or rainbow over half its length. We watched this for a half hour; at no other point, or hour of the day could we have had this. It was our climax, and the highest moment of sight-seeing I have had on the entire trip.

The sun was getting low, and we had bad mountains and hills to wind through; we ran off quickly, and reached the plains just as the sun sank behind the coastal range, a hundred miles away. Dinner at Merced, then a sleepy drive back to Berkeley. Charlie drove a while, then I took the wheel away from him, afraid of his perceptible drowsiness. I had just enough strength left in me to stay away from curbing and other autos; staggered into the apartment at 11.15, and began undressing even before Bruce and his girl left the room. Before he had left the house to see her home, I was in bed, swimming into coma. A great day; perfectly timed and executed; in spite of weather and shortness of time, we had seen everything that the officials had open. It would be wonderful to spend a month there in summer, exploring other canyons and going into the Sierras behind Yosemite.

Friday, Mar. 24. Garberville, Cal. 225 miles. I’m writing this in the kitchen of an auto camp cabin, in the heart of the big redwood country of northern California. In the store I’ve a cracking fire, and hope to get the place warm enough for a good night’s sleep. This redwood makes wonderful kindling.

Slept until 9.00 this morning; the boys got a good breakfast for my farewell. Lydia Anderson, one of Charlie’s neighbors, came over to say goodbye, but possibly to bum a breakfast, because her gang had early classes and she was alone. The boys all moved over, made her set her place and prepare her own grub; I love this gruff and impersonal hospitality. Then Louie came in to ask about our yesterday’s trip and to say goodbye. The boys went to a class; I packed, and Lydia made beds and tidied up the kitchenette. I was ready to leave when Charlie came back at 11.00; much sky-larking and picture-taking and time-killing in the neighbor’s back yard; I finally started off at 11.45.

Through Berkeley to Richmond, took a ferry over the bay, past San Quentin prison; ran through San Rafael, and up north on the Redwood Highway, headed for Oregon. Flat farming country, with many fruit orchards, to Santa Rosa; then the hills began, with increasing grades, sharp turns, heavy woods. I had eaten a big lunch, and decided to drive until dark. The sunshine petered out after 4.00; gray sky, and at dusk some rain. It is showering now while I write. The trip through the mountains, with the south fork of the Eel River winding around hundreds of feet below my dizzy road was exciting. I didn’t attempt to make any driving time; keeping up my record of no trouble. Off in the distance, the larger mountains of the Coastal Range, all covered with snow, showed me what I was missing. Passed, in the darkness before getting here, many groves of giant trees; saw many over 8-feet in diameter. I know I’ll see some still larger in the morning, before getting to Eureka, the great lumber center of these parts.

The last 50 miles were in almost complete darkness; my eyes glued to the road, which turned sharply at least every fifty yards. My arms were tired from swinging the wheel, and lurching around the banks of the road. Ate a good supper in a combination restaurant-post office-soda fountain, then beat the “garage storage” racket by electing a cabin. The woman piled three comforters on my bed; from the feel of things before the store got to work, they are quite necessary. Feel lost up here in the wilderness.

Saturday, Mar. 25. Roseberg, Ore. 340 miles.

Up early; a rainy morning. Drove to last night’s restaurant, after eating three oranges brought from Berkeley; left the car for general lubrication while I ate breakfast. In spite of getting up at 6.45, I didn’t start to travel until 8.30, waiting for auto. Started slowly on the wet roads around dizzy turns, but gathered speed and confidence. The string of redwood groves I passed through up to Eureka were gloomy and impressive; saw many over 10-feet through. This is camping and fishing country almost entirely. At Eureka got to the ocean again; then a long combination of mountains, redwoods, sheer cliffs with road hanging over the pounding surf below. Slow going, even though the rain thinned out to patches of showers. The grades were not bad, but the angles of the road were. At Crescent City I had my last sight of the Pacific; a magnificent run of surf into a shallow bay; ten or more white rollers in view at one time, perhaps a half-mile of white water, with sharp rocks out in the water to roil the foam all the more.

After lunch at Crescent City, angled inwards, twisting up mountains, dodging huge slides which wet weather brought down on the highway. Then crossed Oregon Mountain, a switchback climb with magnificent view of snowy Coastal Range, and into one more state.

Although I may be prosecuted for saying it, the road got ouch better in Oregon, the grades easier, and my running time picked up. I did lose the big redwoods, however, and pine and fir, thinned out by lumber companies, took their place. At Grant’s Pass I registered my out-of-state ear (as I had to in entering California), got another sticker for my windshield, and streaked out over the hills to Roseberg. The valleys are flatter inland,,and much gardening and apple orchards are in evidence. It was just sun-down when I arrived here, sad since there were no good stopping places immediately ahead, decided to stop here and try for an earlier start in the morning.

A good hotel this, the Rose; ate dinner in the coffee shop with a highball. While getting ready to write, the American Legion fife and drum corps gave me a serenade in front of the hotel, -- its regular Saturday night spree, I guess. Wired Arthur Simon I’d be in Seattle by 6.00 tomorrow night, over 400 miles. Now to bed, with hopes of getting up soon after 6.00.

Sunday, Mar. 26, Seattle, Wash. 420 miles

The legion band last night turned out to be a ballyhoo for an auto show in town, with the gang staying at this hotel. Noise and roughhouse until midnight, I did the usual complaint act, and the manager quieted the boys down, and was very friendly to me tills morning at breakfast. Why do I always attract the noise in a strange hotel?

Away at 7.40 this morning; made the fastest run of my entire trip today; arrived at Seattle city limits, just 400 miles, at 5.15; 400 in 9.35; during this time stopped for lunch, traffic, gas, etc. excellent roads all way, but the Sunday riders were too numerous. Roiling country up to Eugene, the state capital, then a broad valley up to Portland, with large ranges on both sides. The sky was overcast, so couldn't see much; a light rain kept my mind on the road. At Portland I had a wonderful sight; from the top of a high hill, the city spread at my feet, with the Columbia River winding about; almost an airplane view. In the distance Mount Hood, a huge cone of pure white, rose to the East; half of it was buried in cloud, making it all the more mysterious. Had a sandwich lunch there; leaving town was halted by a loquacious chap from Maryland who saw my license plates; wanted to know “how things were”, and acted a bit homesick. Wound along the Columbia River northward past many small farms, fishing resorts, and large spaces of burnt timber land. The pines and fir dominate this country. Another glorious peak, Mt. St. Helens, also half covered by cloud. Then the price mountain of all, Ranier, in view from Olympia thru to Seattle. Clouds had lifted, and I could see everything; entirely white, with no trees to break through the snow, glittering in the afternoon sun. Seattle spreads all over Puget Sound; had trouble finding way to Arthur’s house; picked up a University of Washington student, who was a help. Across the Sound to the West the Olympic range, all snow capped; a marvelous country.

A hearty welcome from my old tent-mate; Art hasn’t changed, no sign of his sickness, very heavy, but playful and hearty in his manner. His wife, Vic, a fine woman; made me one of the family immediately. With her mother, we all went to a hotel for dinner. Small talk, and relaxation. Met the president of the Board of Regents of the University; Pres. Spencer resigned today; trouble at the University, inherited from the Suzallo fight. Back to Art’s home, played a little at piano and a melodion they have, very awkwardly. Letter from home and mail from office for me. And a big night’s sleep in a lovely little room with bath all dressed up for me.

Monday, Mar. 27. Seattle, Wash.

Rain today; entire day indoors, save for a few blocks walk with Arthur tonight before retiring. Late breakfast, chatting over coffee and cigarettes until late. Played chess; sent off laundry; a light lunch; wrote in afternoon while Art took his daily nap out of doors on the porch. Tic, a proud housekeeper, got us a swell dinner in evening. Her mother, Mrs. McLean, is living with them, fits into everything with tact and harmony. In little debates, she blindly sticks up for Art. Another chess game tonight; then our walk; talked together, Art and I, after others had gone to bed, about his job and income. He's living on insurance entirely now. Much family kidding about the Swings and the great war romance between Art and Mrs. E's daughter.

Tuesday, Mar. 28. Seattle, Wash.

Still later breakfast; left table at noon, so no lunch today. Art had to go to town for a periodic injection, so went with him. Left suit for pressing, visited his law offices and met his partners, got theater tickets for tomorrow night, chatted with his physician, Art got a whiskey prescription filled and gave it to me for homeward trip, back again to his house; had a snort, then Art took a nap while I played at the piano. After napping, the chess began again. I've never seen anyone, save myself formerly, so anxious to play. He has very few intellectual diversions, and I guess is tired of reading. Another good dinner, and evening at chess with the open fire behind me. I'm getting a perfect rest for a few days. Stopped at University today and got catalogue to look up the men I want to see; no hurry; will stay here until Monday morning.

Wednesday, Mar. 29. Seattle, Wash.

Another two-meal day; breakfast at 11.00. More rain, but walked before breakfast with Art while he made a collection in the neighbor¬hood on some rent due. More chess; mail from Mother about Dad’s ailment; relieved to find that it’s over, and not the beginning of more trouble. Letter from home. I’m getting anxious to run East now. Wrote letters between chess games.

Took all of us into town for dinner at the best hotel and to see the road-show of “Of thee I sing” now in town. It was a gay evening for Vic especially, and all of us had a good time. The laughter of the play did Art good.

Arthur has developed the indifference to time that all tubercular patients must learn; we live under no pressures here; no conscious effort to kill time, but surely no desire to save and use it. One day is exactly like the next. Mann worked this all through his novel “The Magic Mountain”, and I can now appreciate it. He is almost cured now, has no germs in him; just waiting for the final healing of his lungs. Perhaps will be able to return to his office and practice this summer. He is so philosophic that it doesn’t much matter now whether he does or not. He may possibly get an appointment under the new Solicitor General in Washington, and come there to live for a time.

Thursday, Mar. 30. Seattle, Wash.

Up late, finished breakfast about noon. Immediately sat down to a chess game. Then wrote this, up in his den, and presently will go over to town to mail it and to work out my car which has been standing on the street since I arrived Sunday evening.

Tonight Vic gave a dinner for me; Prof. & Mrs. Padelford (he’s head of English at U. of W. and dean of graduate studies), Prof. & Mrs. Charles E. Martin (Political Science and director of some local institute), a Mrs. Jeffrey (to fill in, professorial husband out of town), and Dean David Thompson, vice president of the U. of W. As Art explained, these are the cream of the university set. Vic had a beautiful table and a lavish meal; I too busy talking to taste much of the food I ate* The Martins are intimate friends of the Marvins. I’m amazed at the potency of Marvin’s name and reputation all thru the West. Padelford talked a lot of shop with me, and will arrange to have me meet just the right men of the department at a tea on Saturday.

Friday, Mar. 51. Seattle, Wash.

Up late; another combination breakfast and lunch. Then the chess game; a trip down town to Art’s doctor during which I got in some errands; received notice of more money by wire from home. Mrs. McLean, Vic’s mother, gave us a dinner party tonight; drove 35 miles into the foothills of the Cascades, to Snoqualmie Falls, and ate in a road house just on the brink of the precipice; good dinner and a magnificent tumble of water. The river was full from constant rain; the drop so great that it was all white; no body to it. It cleared this afternoon, and we could see the snow on distant mountains. Before taking this drive, Art had driven me all over the city of Seattle; magnificent sheets of water in Puget Sound, the inner bay, and looks up to Lakes Union and Lake Washington. The Olympic range to the west was under clouds, otherwise the day would have been perfect for its display. The road to Snoqualmie was the one I am to take on Monday, cutting out my visit to Portland, Ore., and I was figitty, anxious to run towards home. Back to Art’s house after dark; played three more games of chess. I am playing better all the time; have a real edge on Art; but I don’t think I’ll crave much more play for some time. It’s the best thing for Art to do to kill time, and he certainly loves it.

Saturday, Apr. 1. Seattle, Wash.

A swell day; up at 7.00, and stole out of the house; ate breakfast over in town, then went to the University golf course, a beautiful 9-hole layout along the edge of the campus, and partly on Lake Washington and on Lake Union. Played until 11.00; 21 holes in all. Took on a student from Alaska; trounced him and enjoyed his company. I was hitting the ball better than ever before; several times got a bit of a gallery to watch me pole out a long drive. Played 86 on my 18 holes; some very bad greens. Back in time for a shave and shower, then ate lunch to the Simons’ breakfast. Then a long chat at table on crime and the practice of law; Art is excellent on an abstract theme, — he has one of the best heads I know.

Up to Art’s den, wrote this and a few post cards. Now to sail them, get my Western Union money ready for my homeward dash on Monday, and to the English tea to meet the men in American Lit. at the University.

The tea at the University was a delightful meeting; Vie, Art and I had decided to break away after an hour, but stayed on until 6.00; too late to get my telegraphed money at the branch, and so had to go down to the main office for it. Padelford had invited his best men for the meeting, and a squad of wives to serve tea and cake in the social room of the English building. Met Taylor, Griffith, and the three men who are doing work in American literature, Blankenship, Eby, Harrison. Fear I was too chatty and became the show myself instead of making the others entertain me. Then, after others left, to Padelford’s office and had him show us his great Spenser find, the Axarchias, a lost prose work, found by him in the original 1592 edition. I'm going to skip Reed College, Portland, for they are doing no graduate work, and I can save 200 miles by going southeast towards home.

After dinner tonight an old woman friend of Mrs. McLean’s came in for evening, also an architect friend of Art’s. He watched us play a long, tedious game of chess; she was a lovely character, challenging every statement made by anyone; always wrong and ever coming back for more. Vic served refreshments; bed late.

Sunday, Apr. 2 Seattle, Wash.

Up late; finished breakfast at noon. Tic likes to kill time thru the morning, and Art is willing. I’d go nuts. But I'm not convalescing and anxious to pass my hours indolently. We then started out. Art driving in his car, to Mt. Ranier. The ride into the foothills, near Tacoma, was ordinary; then the hills sharpened, the fir trees got bigger, and ever behind them towered the pure white peak. No mountain can give the effect of this monster, for its great height reaches up from sea-level. We picked up snow in the woods about 15 miles from the mountain; by the time the national Park station at Longmire was reached, it was over 6-feet deep, but the roads were nicely cleared. We drove up until stopped by the officer at the timber line; between lanes of snow 9 feet deep. Many oars full of youngsters with skiis, drove up to this point then climbed out for the coasting. I envied them. Could see very little, except where the bank of snow opened for a glimpse of the peak above and glacier valley below. We got up about 5500 feet, but nearly two miles more of the great cone above us. On way out, stopped at a road house for huge dinner, then a slow drive back in the night. In bed by 10.30. No effort at description of the mountain, but I’ll not forget it.

THE RETURN

Monday, Apr. 3. Union, Ore. 375 miles.

And now begins the last chapter of my trip. Up at 6.30; packed and made ready to leave. All the family got up to eat breakfast with me and to see me off. Vic packed a lunch for me, with a large box of fruit. Left at 8.30 and took the road we had taken to Snoqualmie Falls. A clear bright day, warm and promising well for ay entire trip. About 20 miles behind the falls is Snoqualmie Pass thru the Cascade Range. I thought I had seen some pretty deep snow yesterday at Ranier, but I saw the road cut thru piles more than 15 feet high in some drifts; the official depth on the level was reported at 138 inches. Long poles were stuck up along the roadside to guide the plows when they clear future snows. Not very cold, even up in the mountains. The frost had torn up the road in many places, so it was very slow going until I had descended to nearly Yakima, when the country changed abruptly; the hills were large rolls, without a tree on them; gradually flattening out, with sage, mesquite and some grass, so that the country looked like Texas. The Yakima River road, a beautiful concrete highway, wound along the valley, occasional apple orchards and farms, all dependent upon irrigation. Took a short cut on a dusty road to a Columbia River ferry, got over into Oregon, and drove through plains for a long while. Then a gradual lift, then into the Blue Mountains, with lots of snow and heavy timber. A magnificent view of the flat lower country when I got up to the mountain plateau. I had left two Pacific ranges behind; the Coastal and the Cascade; now the incidental sierras, then the Rookies, which I am dreading somewhat. Good hotel here in the valley; small town. Art gave me wherewithal, so had highball with dinner. Sent wire home; now for letters and early bed.

Tuesday, Apr. 4. Burley, Idaho. 390 miles

Spent the day practically with the Snake River. Was in grazing land almost the entire run, excepting for the irrigated farming areas along the river flats, extending back perhaps five miles on either side. As soon as the road lifted above irrigation levels onto the broad mesas of the original valley, usually about 100 miles broad, the sage, me a quite, and sand dominated, and again made the country look like my general impression of Texas and Hew Mexico, except for the snow-capped ridges of high mountains on either side, miles off in the hazy distance. Before noon I had crossed into Idaho at Payette; many prosperous farms along the river. Long stretches without fences or houses, crossing plateaus, then dropping down to the river again. The rock is almost all volcanic, in many places the river has gouged out quite a canyon.

Boise, the state capital, a small town tucked under a ridge of snowy mountains. Saw several cattlemen with herds on the roads; many large droves of sheep on the ranges. Ho great change in the landscape from southern Washington, thru Oregon, and this southern corner of Idaho; the road is thru broad valley-washes; mostly plains with distant mountain ranges. At Twin Falls, late this afternoon I drove out to see the highest bridge in the world, over the Snake River Canyon, with the river some 600 feet below. Wild duck down there looked like pieces of confetti floating on the stream. Went East about three miles to see the Shoshone Falls, but not much water was coming over the worn rocks which half filled the broad canyon; hydro-electric plant has taken most of the river at this point. The sight was very impressive notwithstanding; the dark brown lava rook on the sheer edges dropped down about 200 feet before the river was reached; another 250 feet of drop over the falls. The local bridge tender assured me that with full water it was a finer sight than Niagara! Find I have a short out into Salt Lake City, without going far over into Pocatello, saving about 80 mile 6. Put my watch ahead an hour in Idaho; now on Mountain time. Drove into Burley, a windy, two-storied little place, just at sundown. Too cold to leave ay oar on the street over night, took it to garage, end the proprietor proposed that I take his brother-in-law back to Salt Lake City with me in the morning; knows 1he short out, and needs the ride. Staying at a cheap little hotel, looks like good sleeping! Dinner with highball at cafe over the way. Regular dinner was 40¢; took one violation of the menu, made it a la carte thereby, and paid 80¢. Plan to be under way by 7.30; now to bed, at 9.00 p.m.

Wednesday, Apr. 5. Salt Lake City, Utah. 225 miles.

Up early; breakfast over, collected my oar from storage and met the garage man’s brother-in-law, my passenger. A pleasant young fellow, a cook out of work, drives oars and trucks to pick up a bit of money. Bad road to begin, but the gravel got better, and we crossed more land like that of yesterday; only higher and mountains were in view all the time. Slipped into Utah, caught a glimpse of the Great Salt Lake at the northern end; saw much of it before the day was over. All desert country; irrigated in some places, where it is nothing but sage brush and weeds. Thru Brigham, and there saw my first Mormon church; ate lunch at Ogden, my passenger paying. Got in Salt Lake City about 1.30; went to telegraph and post office, nothing there from home; so went to Corfman’s. Mrs. C., dressed in soiled wrapper, received me, grudgingly at first, then talked my ear off about the city and its early days. Found that a wire waited for me at Mr. C’s office. Finally got myself free; went to University of Utah (the campus just two blocks away) situated on the slope of the mountains; lovely view and a good plant, though sparce. Chatted with President Thomas a few moments, then to state capitol, Mr. C. gave me the wire and took me about on a tour of the building; a state museum on basement floor, showing relics of early Mormon pioneers and natural and industrial products. A beautiful building. The view of the city from the hillside is lovely; snow-capped mountains in all directions, slight glimpse of the Lake between hills; the buildings look dwarfed by the hills, and the smoke from houses and distant smelters making a soft haze to tone everything down. Sent off wire; got road information; went to Corfmans’ for dinner, and was kept for the night. He’s a very quiet man; has to be with her. Both long residents of Salt Lake; both here more than 45 years} secretly anti-Mormon, but because they play polities, they are tactful and have won the regard of the Saints. Their daughter Betty, in the University, sat with us after dinner. We talked, chiefly of the Mormons, until after 12.30. Won’t note it all down here; but my opinion of them has not risen.

Thursday, Apr. 6. Rawlins, Wyoming. 325 miles.

It seems I am adding a state a day to my notes. Mrs. C. had a breakfast all ready for me; Mr. C. had gone to work, and Betty was still abed. I had to bear the brunt of all the talk. She is pulling my leg a bit; wants me to use her in teaching “Parliamentary law, politics, political science, and economics” in the Summer Sessions; she gave a short course in this-and-that at the local University, and nearly has her A.B. degree. Dress was not quite clean, or shoulder straps!

The Mormons today opened an annual meeting or convention in the Tabernacle; I went in with them; walked about the grounds of the sacred and mysterious Temple. The Tabernacle is very disappointing; coarse and large, the organ just noisy. Impressive to see 10,000 Saints together, and to hear them lustily singing a hymn. They are not outstanding looking individuals. Left feeling gypped; they might have been Methodists.

I am now nearly across the Wyoming desert-plains, and nothing has justified all the awe and terror it inspired. A warm, sunny day, with the wind and sun behind me. Left Salt Lake at 11.00; wound up through canyons and crossed the Wasatch mountains; then a dreary spell of poor land; sage, sand, and mesas, with shallow canyons to slide into and up. No houses or towns for miles apart; life is nearly at zero here. Traces of heavy snows remain. Crossed the Continental Divide late this afternoon, and begin to see more mountains ahead; they are the beginning of the Rockies. When these are passed, (I hope at Boulder tomorrow noon) the next hills I see are the Alleghanies. I next dread the mud and dreariness of eastern Colorado and western Kansas.

Noticed birds; the magpie, which eats carrion like a buzzard; a beautiful thing, irridescent black, sleeker than a crow; white breast and white bands on wings, with a long, fan-shaped tail. Too bad he can't get other food. Also the Chinese pheasant, who should be in a museum case; brilliantly colored, almost like a peacock. Nearly ran one down. Millions of chipmunks darting over the roads like rats; an occasional ground squirrel. Tomorrow 1 guess I’ll meet the prairie dog in eastern Colorado. Now to bed and an early start. Friday, Apr. 7. Colby, Kansas. 505 miles.

A great day of fast driving. I feel as tho I am weeks nearer home than 1 was yesterday. Left my little Wyoming town at 7.00; after breakfast at cafe counter, during which I talked with a lanky cowboy looking for work in western oilfields; only gets $55 a month riding cattle; yearlings at that, the hardest bunch to tend; 16 hrs. a day. Cattle business aint what it was; sheep have spoiled the ranges; nibble the grass close to roots and kill it off; before the war grass stood waist high; now the sand and dirt shows thru; cattle men used to give a sheepherder 56 hours to move his drove over the range along here, and confined him to a strip a half-ail e wide. Now most of the cattle men keep sheep also.

Cold, windy, rolling country; after Laramie, turned south and slid between foothills of the Bookies down to Denver; a great show of snow-capped peaks. Roads all paved in Colorado, and the pines made the country look better than Wyoming’s plains. Much farming in the watered belt fed by streams from the mountains. Estes Park, a mass of glittering peaks up back of Boulder. I was there in 1915 at a fraternity convention. Rolled through Denver; stopped at Post Office with my air letters home; got information at AAA head Quarters, and had lunch at a counter nearby, with two bottles of the new legal beer which came in last night. Left town singing; feeling that the country was still worth saving.

Quickly got out into the country, going down grade into the plains; something like Wyoming. About 40 miles out got my last view of Pikes Peak to the south and the Rockies behind me; won't see snow until next winter again. The land flattened out, no more rolls, and no greenery. In Eastern Colorado I met with one of the sand and dust storms I've been warned about. Fortunately the wind was one-quarter behind me; going at 90 miles perhaps; I at 55, so didn’t feel it much. High clouds of brown sand; when I saw it miles away, thought it was a hay field on fire; when it went across my road at times I couldn't see fifty yards ahead. Lucky I wasn't going the other way. Dusty riding all afternoon; roads oiled sometimes, often a dusty fine gravel. I thought Texas and New Mexico were desolate; nothing like Colorado and western Kansas. Each hundred miles, however, the soil seemed slightly better; soon a bit of grazing land was broken by plowing; later the plowing predominated, and each little town was marked by its grain elevator. Mostly corn out here. Just at dark got to this town; rather nice for the country it's in. Dismayed at hotel by a tractor dealers’ convention and dance. Dinner and highball at hotel; walked to station and wired Mildred Teegarden of my advent; bed early, with misgivings about my sleep.

Saturday, Apr. 8. Kansas City, Mo. 430 miles.

I should have known better than to stay at that hotel last night; the drinking and singing, mixed, with women, went on just opposite my room. I was too tired to get very excited; dosed between outbursts; another chap however voiced his protest by slamming his door a dozen times, to my disgust; then someone on the floor above pounded and silence came with the dawn. Cleared out at 9.00, and speeded across Kansas; roads excellent where paved and the gravel not so bad, but dusty. I averaged about 52 miles an hour. Got hot at noon; low, flat farming country; wheat and corn; towns every 10 miles, and the grain elevator the best and most prominent building. Like yesterday, the country improved noticeably every 100 miles eastward; after Salina the rolling began, with streams, and along them trees. Short-out around Topeka and Lawrence, and rolled over hills into the Missouri valley, and into Kansas City, Mo.

Found a quiet apartment hotel; got back room on 8th floor looking over the city; sure of a good night’s rest at last. Dinner down town, with more good beer. My meals will be more happy now. Got hair out and a description of the lousiness of the city from the barber; walked to telegraph office, and saw for myself; never met with so many bums and street-walkers; police wagons clanging about having a picnic; got a cigar and shine, then to my room for writing.

And now for the big sleep.

Sunday, April 9. St. Louis, Missouri. 280 miles. After conventional breakfast in a side street cafe, left Kansas City about 10:00. My impression of the place, driving through boulevards and suburbs with good citizens dressed in Sunday clothes going to church in the bright sunshine, was very much better than that of last night. Nearer the center of the Mississippi basin than Kansas, the state of Missouri, although flat, is cut by many old stream beds and the impression of rolling country grows. Well watered, it is good farm country. No particular scenery across the entire state; saw more negroes than mules, which I had not expected. Had beer and hamburgers at filling station; proprietor told of a neighboring road stand disposing of all of its near-beer in this present rush and of village cutups getting drunk on sheer imagination. Had my first accident this afternoon; sideswiped by a big car coming over hill against the wind on a narrow road, taking off my rear bumper and damaging the fender. The other driver did not stop. I was scared to death and congratu¬lated myself on a harmless accident and insurance coveries. The pleasant afternoon brought out too many Sunday drivers for the road; lost time in St. Louis suburbs, located Teegarden’s home without much trouble and received a cordial welcome from Mildred and Tee. Marty, a friend of Mildred’s, is visiting her. Much beer, highballs, chatter, swell dinner, and small talk. In evening drove Marty to a barbeque stand for more beer and moonlight. Slept on a mattress on the living room floor under Dan’s wedding gift comforter.

Monday, April 10. St. Louis, Mo.

Took my car to garage for repairs and Mildred drove me to see a new house she is considering in the suburbs; passed Washington Uni¬versity; through parks; went in Lindbergh collection at Municipal Museum; and accompanied her on errands. Marty had lunch and numerous cocktails ready, after which we all went to sleep. Late in afternoon downtown on errands and after tea, got at home, I took them all to dinner and dancing at a downtown hotel. Home early, more chatter, and bed late. Tuesday, April 11. Indianapolis, Ind. 260 miles.

Tee and the girls piloted me through town and saw me off at the bridge over the Mississippi into East St. Louis, Ill. Southern Illinois flat and drab, good farming with more of the towns industrial centers. I stopped at Highland to see the Wicks Organ Factory. Zimmerman, with whom I wanted to talk business was away, but met the Wick brothers and the office force. Was shown through the entire factory, even to the private laboratory of Mr. Wick, a quiet soft-spoken German with a difficult accent. After my tour I played the studio organ which they had for demonstration and felt homesick for my own instrument.. A rotten perfunctory lunch in a small-town restaurant; became very drowsy in mid-afternoon, so pulled up at a filling station, parked my car and dozed for thirty minutes. I was afraid lest my eyes glazed and I should go into the gutter. Indiana has been wronged. The southern part into Indianapolis is quite as rolling and surely more prosperous looking than Illinois or Missouri. Arrived at Indianapolis about 6.30 and decided to splurge. Asked for the best hotels and took the best of them; the Marott, a residence hotel away from the heart of the city, something like Washington’s Shoreham. Got a lovely room on the tenth floor, which gave me a good night. After a highball, drove downtown and ate a late dinner at a Chinese restaurant, expensive but adequate. Drove through the park and around the new buildings of Butler University, very beautiful but very far from complete. The city seemed more prosperous and certainly more beautiful than Kansas City or St. Louis.

Wednesday, April 12. Cambridge, Ohio. 265 miles.

Slept late this morning, consciously continuing in bed to drowse all the slumber out of me. Breakfast downtown and did not get out of the city until nearly noon. The country continued the same with the rolling hills getting higher through southeastern Ohio. Passed through Columbus just as offices were emptying and lost an hour in the traffic. Interesting to notice woodlands increasing as the slight beginnings of the Appalachian slope were met. Had expected to stop at Zanesville, but it was too dirty; a soft coal glass and pottery town. Cambridge sounded cleaner and more inviting, but it proved merely smaller and quite as dirty. Supper in a new beer bar crowded with small-town folk, many young fellows drinking their first legal alcoholic beer with other natives on the sidewalk looking into this new den of iniquity. Stopped at a tourist’s home; rather squalid but adequate enough. Chatted with the master of the house over a pipe, a quaint hearty democrat; butcher out of work who cursed chain stores as contributing to his hard times. He had recently remarried, wisely (though not to well), a widow who owned this house; chief complaint; stomach gas caused by a change of diet she imposed upon him.

Thursday, April 13. Southport. 340 miles.

Drove hard and fast all day to get home in the middle of the afternoon. From Cambridge to Wheeling a very beautiful drive through hilly country. Stayed on the national pike all the way, but found the mountain roads through the Alleghanies more difficult driving than through the great mountains of the west; narrower roads, sharper curves, and steeper grades. Lost an hour at Washington, Pa., replacing worn-out spark plugs. From Cumberland east, the towns and distances, all familiar, were merely so much annoyance. No thrill or interest in seeing things, merely something to be gotten over. After Ridgeville, Md., my interest changed. I was on my own heath and the country around Olney, Ashton, etc., was something to be compared with distant localities, As I drove into Southport with the new buds on the trees and the woods cleaned, new grass coming out and flowers in bud, the beauty o