MARCH 11, 1950
HYDE PARK, Friday—Senator Joseph R. McCarthy, in choosing the name of Miss Dorothy Kenyon for his first "revelation" of "Communist" employees in the State Department, seems to me very ill informed—for, of course, in making such accusations he would not, I feel sure, allow himself to be partisan. Miss Kenyon has long been well known to many women, not only in New York City but also in other parts of the United States, as well as in other countries. She has belonged to innumerable organizations; and even if she did join some that turned out to be so-called subversive ones, every woman who knows her would be sure that Miss Kenyon's intentions were good.
The only possible criticism of Dorothy Kenyon I can think of would be that she hoped at times to accomplish more good things than I believe can be achieved all at one stroke. But to imply that she is a Communist, or in any way subversive, is one of the funniest things ever suggested. Any woman who has served with Miss Kenyon in any organization, or talked with her at any time, will dismiss this accusation with a smile. If all of the Honorable Senator's "subversives" are as subversive as Miss Kenyon, I think the State Department is entirely safe and the nation will continue on an even keel.
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The March winds yesterday blew cold and raw, but when the sun came out and the sky cleared, you forgot that three minutes earlier a snow squall was sweeping across the field and making you shiver! I had a chance to walk with the dogs, and I finally found time to go through piles of manuscripts, magazines and pamphlets which had accumulated beside my desk ever since last summer.
Several friends came in to tea, one of them somewhat late after spending an hour and a half extricating his car from the mud in the woods. That is also a sign that March is really here, with the mud instead of the snow and ice forming the real barrier to motoring over certain roads. In any case, I have no desire these days to motor. I want to use my own legs and feel the companionship of my two little dogs, then come back with joy to the open fire and a book.
I have an advance copy of a fascinating volume at the moment; but it is hard to finish one's reading, for the days are never long enough up here. There is so much to do and so little time, even though I remind myself of the dictum my mother-in-law always used with my children. If they tried to say that they were late, or had not accomplished some thing because there was "no time," she would always answer: "My dears, my Aunt Laura always said to us: 'You had all the time there was."' All the time there was is never quite enough for me. I would like a few hours added to both the day and the night—a little more time for work, and a little more time to sleep. That would suit me very well.