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due to the fame of mind I was in. Mr. Otis of the North Shore was there with Brehob, and the redesign of the locomotives began. By the end of the day I was pretty provoked because it seemed rather unreasonable to wait so long to ask us to make changes. I was provoked most because I have so many other things to do right now. And then, to top it off, Mr. Schweikert (Mr. Case's administrative assistant) inadvertently told me I was still on the "Departmental Plan," although I presume the reason is that they are keeping all men on in name at least for a year because someone else pays 25% of their salaries. But nevertheless, in my mood, it jarred me. When our game is poor, how unstable we are, how shaken by every doubt, every fear. And yet just a year ago I was shaken by the greatest anxiety I have yet experienced--wondering, hoping, fearing, trying to play the game. Today how vastly superior are my hopes, my position, my possibilities, my outlook--and yet I worry! I have in the last few years learned many lessons but, ah, I have yet to live my life in the light of what I have learned. With what I know and am capable of appreciating and reasoning out, together with a little faith, I should be able to live wonderfully indeed. And so the battle roars on, the battle within me, the battle which, if won, will make of my life something worthwhile.

Riding home last evening with Ted Elliott, I heard Thecla Mozdy characterized as "with due respect to her, just a plain, dumb little Pollock," and Mr. Schweikert said, "That's about the way I sized her up too." This concerning a girl whom I had sized up as someone different from the common run although of common origin. For some reason, a flame of resentment shot through me for this terse judgment. Has the beauty of this girl's body led me into thinking I see something beautiful in her character, an idea which is coming from intuition only? Well, after all, what difference does it make except that to live fully, one should know and appreciate and know all kinds of people, and here is a typical case which I think interesting.

[[underlined]] To Mother, October 29, 1927: [[underlined]] This afternoon, Willie, Gertrude Coe and I took quite a drive in the country after the YPRU doings. The foliage was more gorgeous today than ever, just marvelous everywhere one looked, and usually somewhere in the background would be the blue lake, which seems to add just the right touch to all the yellows and oranges and browns--it looks much more beautiful when seen through the flaming autumn trees than in the summer behind the green. Nature is certainly most artistic of all at this time. It seems as though the predominant color scheme, instead of being one of blue and green as in the summer, should rather have been the one we seen now, with the blue and green the one of least duration if, indeed, included at all.