WASHINGTON, Monday—I am back in Washington and find it even more springlike than the Hudson River country. The frost was coming out of the ground up there and in some places I sank in almost to the tops of my high walking boots.

On these days which are the forerunners of spring, it seems difficult to believe that we will again find ourselves in mid-winter, probably with deep snow and cold winds. If I had been wise enough in my woodlore I would have picked some branches of dogwood yesterday and brought them into the house to blossom. Next year I think I shall tie little rags on the trees when they are in bloom, for I never seem to be able to learn how to identify them by their bark in the winter.

I attended a delightful concert this morning at which Miss Hilda Burke, of the Metropolitan Opera, and Mr. John Charles Thomas sang. We all enjoyed it and regretted this is the last of Mrs. Townsend's concerts for this year. She announced she would continue the Monday musicals next winter and I am very happy she is doing so.

A very old friend of my husband's, Lady Archer-Shee, is staying with us and Mr. and Mrs. John Cutter, of Boston, are also here. My husband's godchild and cousin, Mrs. S. C. Fellowes-Gordon and her husband are arriving this afternoon. They now live in England, so when they come over here, all the family vie with each other to see something of them.

When I took the train to Washington from the Pennsylvania Station in New York City, I heard some one say: "Good evening Mrs. Roosevelt. I am Alexander Woollcott."

Of course, I would have known him without this identification, but I couldn't help thinking of the numbers of people whom I have met at receptions in different parts of the country, who say: "I wonder if you remember me?"

Mr. Woollcott was on his way to Boston, and he tells me he has gone on the stage and is opening there tonight in a Theatre Guild play. I gathered he is having a thoroughly good time. He wasn't too engrossed in himself, however, to dash over to the news stand to buy me a copy of the New Yorker and say: "Have you read Dorothy Parker's article? It's the best thing she has written in a long time." Midnight or no midnight, I sat up and read it. It's short, but you won't forget it for a long time.