Friday, November twenty-ninth.
Last night a terrific storm from the east. A few blasts struck the house with such force that it seemed our thin roof could not stand it. Of course it is really quite strong enough but the noise of those sudden squalls bearing along snow and ice from the tree tops is simply appalling. In the morning it became milder but continued to rain and snow and for most of the day to blow heavily from the eastward. In the afternoon to my despair a steamer entered for Seward; she’ll doubtless leave at daylight. There goes one of my chances to get my Christmas mail off.
I painted splendidly to-day and am in the seventh heaven over it,—which takes away some of my gloom at never reaching Seward. A long call from Olson to-night. He sits here patiently and silently while I draw. It snows steadily. What will to-morrow bring?
Francis Galton, the inquirer into human faculty, would have been charmed at Rockwell’s casual mention of the colors of proper names. They do apparently assume definite colors that seem to him appropriate and characteristic beyond question. Clara, too, sees names as colors. Father is blue, Mother is a darker blue. The breadth of vowel sound apparently, judging from this and other examples he gave me, lowers the tone of color. Kathleen is a light yellow, very light. Now for a bite to eat, for I’ve had but two meals—and then to bed.
