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[[preprinted]] [[double line]] Memoranda [[line]] [[/preprinted]] mother's apron strings. They call it "playing the game". Guess I'll like it here all right, though, pretty soon. After Stewart gets up and everything downstairs is running regularly, I'll get a chanst to look around and get interested in the place. It can't crowd old Aden out, though. This past year there [[strikethrough]]has been[[/strikethrough]] ^[[was]] a very happy one, in spite of being away from home, and the old town among the big brown rocks will always pull the big stroke in ^[[the remembrances of]] my life out here. It's a grand old burg. No Christmas presents yet. Guess they'll come next mail, - about the 6th. Gee whiz, if it wasn't for [[strikethrough]]that[[/strikethrough]]the tangible evidence of [[end page]] [[start page]] [[preprinted]]Memoranda[/preprinted]] the season in the shape of our Christmas box, we'd never know it had rolled around again. Christmas in the summer time isn't in accordance with my notions on the fitness of things. Well, I'm going to prepare for those bloody Goanese tonight. If they hand me any more of those bum carols that they warbled down below a week ago, there'll be somethin' doin'. I never heard [[strikeout]] ^[[so much bloody row]] since the devil was a baby. My three years are flying by to beat the band. This makes nearly one half of the time. With new surroundings and new work now I expect