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Oct. lst 1917.

That Harvest moon outside is as big as the usual cartwheel that it is compared with. It rose out of Lake Ontario an hour ago for all the world appearing just as a sunset or sunrise -a rich red. The night is still and clear and cold. A few clouds are motionless above with a lighted Heavens dotted with the brightest of stars shinning behind the white banks. No wonder I feel like rhapsodying, my dearest, ^[[sent to my best girl (later my dear wife) several pages at a time.]] for as I came over just now from the big markee that we call the "canteen" (candies, smokers' delights, and music) I saw a wonderful sight. Nature's setting for this open air stage was stupendous. That gorgeous moon was growing high in the lake, forming the silver path on the unruffled surface of the water. The glow in the West had not vanished and remained