DECEMBER 30, 1937
Back on a plane having left the train at Billings, Montana at 3 a.m. this morning. At present we've had breakfast in Fargo and are waiting for weather reports which we hope will allow us to continue on our way.
Yesterday all wires were down along the railroad for about five hours and I thought I would never get my column filed in time. Today I'm taking no chances and am getting it off while we wait.
I hope to be in Washington tonight, but you may hear from me again somewhere along the road. It is good for my typing anyway, as I have to do it myself but I am a bit sorry for those who have to read it.
One of the Christmas presents which I enjoyed the most, came to me just before I left Washington. I tucked it into my briefcase and knew I could spend some pleasant hours going through it. It is "The Desk Drawer Anthology," compiled and selected by Alice Roosevelt Longworth and Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.
No two people I know of are better fitted to do a book of this kind. They were brought up on poetry, for Uncle Ted and all his family loved to read and recite it. Colonel Theodore Roosevelt and his sister must have heard every variety, both classical and non-classical, from their earliest youth. I don't remember much about Ted's memory, but I have always regarded Alice's with awe, for she could recite a long poem after reading it over once.
In compiling this anthology, Alexander Woollcott, town crier of the radio, asked the people of the United States to send Alice Longworth and Col. Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., anything they had read and clipped out and put into a drawer to read again in leisure moments. Alice and Ted's selections are almost entirely American, except in a few instances, where English poets have been allowed to creep in. So the subtitle, "Poems For The American People," could almost be, "Poems By The American People." I am pleased to find so many old friends that are rarely found in the usual type of anthology.
I am most grateful to my cousin, Ted, for sending this book to me, though he makes me feel a little guilty because of his inscription, which reads: "Dear Eleanor —I bought your book and liked it very much. This book comes to you as a present, Merry Christmas. —Ted."
Thank you, sir, for liking my book, and for sending yours. I'll be more thoughtful next time, though I know you won't derive half as much pleasure out of the next book, which I will send you, as I have derived from yours.