The wide November landscape seemed pregnant with innumerable pictures – Coming to the railroad,I climbed a freight car and walked along the top of the cars.  The landscape seemed different from up here.  When at last I climbed down again – I examined the underneath, and gauged the height of the ladder and marveled that anyone could “hop” a moving train-
     Dec. 9, 1930
     Lumbago came upon me suddenly this morning, like the blow of a club – the exuberance of yesterday is replaced by pessimism and a feeling of futility – But out of it comes an old forgotten idea – the death of Boris-          Dec. 12 –
     How can I get out of this slough?  Everything I attempt is useless.
     A bitterly raw, damp December day – Sketching out by the French Road Bridge – a raw wind sweeping out of the southwest driving loose indefinite low-hanging clouds before it – the fields below the bridge slope are rich dull ochre, vandyke and sienna – to the northeast  a few scrawny apple trees relieving the grassy waste – a half-dozen crows scattered in the trees – one stirs itself and with a hoarse cry flies to another tree, and all at once it came over me how much I loved today – all the dour qualities of the sky and