I know how she feels for I take to John Keats. I don’t myself care much for strong drink. I drink a little of it at irregular intervals, but, by and large, I drink without éclat. In this mountain altitude whiskey makes me sick, champagne makes me dizzy and gin is a pungent punishment. One morning after reading of Josephina’s white-line distinction in a police-court column I tasted some alcohol, but it had a varnish flavor and had strangling effects on my throat. It made me marvel at Josephina’s prowess. I like absinthe in its bitter strength mostly because to sit sipping it feels restfully forbidden. Port wine is a brackish medicine, I hate the stickiness of cordials, and a cocktail I like chiefly to contemplate. So much for me and strong drink. Josephina on the other hand does not care for John Keats. I sounded her on poetry in some of its human aspects: there was nobody at home. Her own enlightened north country has some poets of borealic iron and brain-brawn and beauty: to Josephina’s wooden intellect their books are eternally closed. But the Demon Rum looses a heated flood of poetry upon her, which I can but vision and not feel. I am incapable of strong drink even as Josephina is incapable of John Keats. We are quits there. I look on myself as the more fortunate.--John Keats! A woman so drunk as to fall and reel about is always an exquisitely shameful thing. And when I think of how she’s tossed into the wagon--to mention but one item-- But it’s a matter of the human equation. Doubtless it is all relative. The Finn woman is not aware of how she is knocked about, and if she were she would not regard it with any of my imagination. So what matter? A likeable and admirable person is Josephina. A so strong fine businesslike worker, a so thoroughbred sport, a so splendid drunkard, and asking no odds of God or man. In her stolid Finn fashion she likes me as she has proven, and I like her though she makes me feel inferior. --if Josephina could and would write _her_ inner isolated world of thoughts--the saga of her one horrid gown! There would be a book. All blacks and carmines--all stolidly sober and brilliantly drunk--all dingily bathless: deeply savagely quietly human. It would be a book savoring not of white alcohol but of the salty unshed Tears, the dry artistic Griefs of Josephina. _Beneficent bedlam_ To-morrow I have been so long Sane it would be gay and sweet and resting to go Mad. I would I could go Mad. To a Mad-woman a Door is not a Door, probably: a Cat is not a Cat, belike: and To-morrow is not To-morrow at all--it may be week-before-last, it may be next year, it may be an exquisite jest. One can not tell _what_ it is. It is the thing one escapes by going Mad: Monotony. It’s all beneficent bedlam. _A deathly pathos_ To-morrow