Monday, November eighteenth.
To-day a storm from the southeast. It blows like fury. Breakfast by lamplight, work until dark, then dinner—in the neighborhood of three o’clock or maybe four—more work, and a nap, for I felt exhausted. Rockwell goes to bed and is read to, I work a while longer, then a light supper for which Rockwell gets up again, then—the dishes washed and R. again in bed—a call on Olson for three quarters of an hour, leaving there at ten, to work again till some wild hour. What a strangely arranged day! I’m determined to have a clock. But now it will be seen that no more time must be spent this night upon this diary. Amen.