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Monday June 7th -

At four o'clock I woke to find a beautiful purple haze to the South and poking my head out of the hole I saw the sun rise in the East with all his splendor.  But that was all [[strikethrough]] of the [[/strikethrough]] the sun I have seen for a long time and no more this day.  I slept again had breakfast, slept again and practically slept all day, reading "Leberecht Hühnchen" when my eyes were open, though the mind was never quite free from that welcome drowsiness.

It's no wonder Miss Curtiss is still not known to me, people don't call at my cabin and I am rarely on deck.  I promenaded a half hour with Louis Mann the actor, he is certainly not hard to get at; harder to get rid of.

I wish Hühnchen had lived in a land producing better things than herring and potatoes.  There is a poverty that goes to the marrow and as cold will freeze eventually the warmest blood so poverty will freeze out poetry.  Viennese poverty among "Studierte Leut" was bad enough, but Berlin beats it.  The poet Lyre fails to reach my heart when he sings of [["Jellbartoffel"?]] and "Speckstippe."  That indignation I felt

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