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Erie, Pa.,
May 5, 1926.

The days are so full, I have little time to write, full as my mind and my heart are with things to write about. The influence of last weekend was a marvelous one. As I think of Marian Talley singing "Lucia," 1 could cry -— lovely, divine, beautiful. Gigli singing in "La Boheme," the tones of his voice, the beautiful strains of song. And Ponselle soaring above everything in "Cavalleria Rusticana." And I remember particularly one member of the audience, an elderly, white-haired, white—moustached gentleman, an aristocrat if there ever was one. He was the finest looking man of that age I've ever seen, and he was fine because in his face and whole aspect was a look of one who has lived his life well and done good things. I have the great desire to live so that at his age, I may have a face like that. Mother said, "You will look like, that when you are his age." And I hope she's right.

Erie, Pa.,
May 6, 1926.

Today was a rather busy one and I never got a wink of sleep. This morning I spent at the plant arranging vacation dates and seeing about bonds. This afternoon I went to the Duttons for a call, and arranged for Mother and me to rent their house furnished for the summer, which will be perfectly marvelous, but rather sad at bottom, for it's the last time Mother and I will ever be with each other just that way again. But we're happy for at least this one more time. Then I called at the Klosses and had tea with Mrs. Kloss and Marie and little Annabelle, who is a perfect darling and reminds me a bit of Willie. I like to go there; they are so kind and hospitable and genuine. Mrs. Kloss impressed Mother the most of anyone she met while here and there is real character in Mrs. Kloss; I like her. And Marie Elliot is an awfully nice girl too. I think she has depths that most people don't see.

Erie, Pa.,
May 7, 1926.

I read ”The Hounds of Spring" all morning and slept this afternoon. It is as marvelous to read such a story by a 23-year old girl as it is to hear 19-year old Marian Talley sing "Lucia." It is really amazing and I marvel at her insight and understanding. Reading such stories kindles my desire still more to someday write a novel, a glorious one, full of hope and refutation of the philosophy of Hardy, great as he is. Time to go to work. Tomorrow I visit Ken again in Meadville.

Meadville, Pa.,
May 8, 1926.

After a very trying night at the plant, filled with smoking