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[[preprinted]] Friday, January 22, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

We had an unexpected mail from home today, and in it was a little baksheesh from her, as my birthday offering. She is loading me down with jewelry, and it's beginning to be a dead giveaway to the public. And when they learn l've been blowing her to bedclothes and crockery l can't help but admit that it looks black for us. I s'pose now that we might just as well come out and own up and be done with it.

They're all on, Kid. 

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[[preprinted]] Saturday, January 23, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

I picked up W.D. Howell's "Letters Home" this afternoon and found it so delightful that I finished it at a sitting. He certainly can write, and has a rare humor. When I came to the point where the real hero addresses his wottoma chum, "She was the best dressed girl in the supperroom, and she didn't go half-way down her spine to prove it." I almost had a fit.

Finished Mark Twain's "Roughing It" the other day, and between the two have been quite cheerful lately.