NOVEMBER 28, 1940
NEW YORK, Wednesday—Days in New York City are always busy, but the chronicle of them is rather uninteresting. One little thing happened yesterday afternoon which pleased me very much. As I was walking down Madison Avenue, a gentleman caught up with me and said: "Forgive me, Mrs. Roosevelt, I've always wanted to tell you how much all of us enjoy reading `My Day.' "It was nice of him, wasn't it?
Yesterday, I spent the morning at the Woman's Centennial Congress, leading the discussion on the momentous question: "The present status of women and where we go from here." Out of it came the decision that we should stop studying and do something, particularly in our own communities.
Miss Lucy Mason and Mr. James Dombrowski lunched with me and I heard something of the plans for community work around the Highlander School in the Tennessee mountains. If I possibly can, I must go there next spring.
I did a good bit of shopping and managed to reach Miss Helen Harris' NYA office on West 14th Street, at a little after 4:00 o'clock. The New York City Advisory Committee was meeting there for the first time this autumn. I was very happy to hear Miss Harris' report to them of the work being carried on by NYA in cooperation with the defense program, as well as to know something of the continuation of the work which has been going on in schools and other projects.
By February some 20,000 young people will be on the various projects, but they calculated last March that some 400,000 were employed in greater New York. We hope that this is now changing and the number of unemployed will be considerably lessened from month to month.
On leaving there, I went to tea uptown with a friend, and Miss Thompson joined me. We left a little after 6:00, we came home to prepare rather hurriedly I must admit, for the guests who were dining with us at the apartment.
When I stepped out on my porch last night, I realized that the Texas storm we have been reading about had come to visit us up here. The snow was on the ground and the wind was blowing. The little book of Eugene Field's poems, which I picked up to read for a few minutes, has in it a poem I always think of when I lie and listen to the wind blow. It begins:
'Tis a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear."
And I always want to get down under the bedclothes and cover up my head!
I must now go to a meeting of the United States Committee for the Care of European Children.