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Friday, December 2, 1910
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Mail day agin. Not from home,- if it was, I shouldn't say a word. But that glad event doesn't happen until chewsdah.

I was going over to the Johnsons after dinner, so I put on a boiled shirt,- and it was damned hot, in this weather,- and I waited until a little after half past ten and they were still in the dining-room, so I said to meself, I says , "T'ell wit 'em", I says, and I doffed me glad rags and hit the hay. 

And that was a funny dream I had about Edie and her aunt. There's no accountin' for dreams. It's just a matter of pills sometimes, [[strikethrough]]but[[/strikethrough]] ^[[though]] I never use 'em, myself.

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Saturday, December 3, 1910
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Chucked up four dibs tonight to see the damndest cinematograph show I ever saw. Oh, it was punk. Punk doesn't half express it. It was simply putrid. 

Bitters and Cocktail turned up a cat tonight, down the street from our door to the beach. Inside of fifteen seconds - it couldn't have been longer - that cat was about as dead as it ever will be in this world. 

Bitters is a pretty little girl, but like most of 'em, foolish. She's had a sore ear for the past few days, which she scratches to an accompaniment of yelps, all through the long night. "It'll never get well while she picks it."