I’ve stayed in Eagle Point again. My night was cruel, but I remember little of it and I didn’t bring myself to write. I think there was good reason.

I bought a book today. It was a foolish thing to do, you may think, but I will be saving money with my canoe plan. The book was expensive. A dollar twenty, but it’s new. The clerk at the train station had a stack of books behind his counter, which I found strange. I’d never seen anything like it. I suspect he is buying and selling them himself, as the stack seemed to have some preference exercised in its making. It was almost all fiction but for a copy of the newer edition of Leaves of Grass and the book I bought, a poetry collection of a man by the name of Robert Frost. It’s called North of Boston.

I’ve only read the first poem but it’s already obvious to me that Mr. Frost is almost as tired of people as I am. I may be proven wrong in further reading. It reads with the speech of New England. I’ve known New Englanders in my time working in San Francisco, it being a port town, and their words have a frankness I find charming, as I would think most people would. They are, however, people. And people, Lord, they tire me.

The clerk said North of Boston is Frost’s second book, but his first book isn’t yet published. Strange times.

I was in no condition at all to travel this morning, so I’ve decided to take a rest day. I’ll read more of the book and lay in bed. The travel has been hard on me. Couldn’t you have made the world a little smaller, Lord? Nevermind it. The test is ongoing and I’ll not fail. I have nothing much to write of today. I have done nothing worthy of confession but buying the book and being slothful. Forgive me. I’ll set out for Indian country tomorrow.

I’d like to make note of the war. I say war and not wars because they became one yesterday, so the talk in town is. The clerk told me.