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Boston, Mass.
Sunday, Dec. 4 1938.

Spent the morning in my room working on the dope we collected yesterday. Wandered up around the Common section for lunch and felt very, very blue and homesick and unhappy. I have felt homesick on this whole trip, in fact. It's a result, I suppose of being home for two months, and then coming to a comparatively strange place alone, working with strange people, having no one congenial to bum around with. To me Boston is a flop. The historical interest is ruined to me when I see the lovely old colonial buildings sitting down among warehouses and slums or modern office buildings, a Boston Irishman sitting in the State House ridden with politics and graft. It's all such a contrast that it spoils it for me. Maybe if I weren't in such a glum mood, I'd feel better about it. 

This afternoon, Harrison showed up and we made another visit to the hump to clean up some loose ends. Again, I found Harrison very congenial. His big worry right now is his mother-in-law, who wants to name the baby and is making life generally miserable for him apparently. She's leaving Wednesday, he says, thank God. So that problem seems to appear in other places - I presume it is a very common one.

Spent the evening in my room - a very blue day for me. No word from Erie yet from anyone.

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