These delightful autumn days, filled with cool sunshine, make me feel fine. I am alone a good deal of the time and am glad of it. My work will always demand solitude to a great extent in creative effort. Your son is improving every day, so don’t worry one moment about me. -- -- -- -- 13: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] [_October 31, 1917_] Ma chere et charmante mere: Yesterday it poured rain all day, and I remained sheltered, studying French. But November is less evident now, and the sun is out again. I suppose that you are all right although I have had no letter since Sunday. Mrs. Walton[5] went off to the movies this morning, which makes me think again that it would be agreeable for you to enter them when you arrive.[6] After I mail this, I am going up to _The Little Review_ office to have a talk with Margaret Anderson (and perhaps dispose of a poem). --/--/ 1918 14: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT _Cleveland, O._ _Aug. 12, ’18_ Dear William: Your letter freshly “arriven.” Your reference to ambulance service arouses me to protest. You will _not_ be drafted--this year anyway, and I hope you won’t become agitated so much as to rush into any kind of service. A word in the ear: I tried to enlist this morning and was not permitted even to enter the office. The guard at the door said to “look in the paper,” which I did and found that all minors are to be excluded from “volunteering,” and if drafted at all, will be apprenticed in machine shops, etc., during the war period. Anyhow, I think by the way things look at present, ambulance service, after the time necessary for training, transportation, etc., would be a little superfluous. (Some would call me a demon of the Huns for whispering this in your ear) I really believe the war isn’t to last much longer. Being destined, as you are, for Yale, you won’t be drafted for anything. But you will have to undergo some discipline, as Mother, who visited no less than twelve Eastern colleges in her last expedition, states. Let me clear myself. Heat and conditions at home (both of which you comprehend, I’m sure) drove me to the deed from which I was frustrated this morning. I take no credit for patriotism nor bravery. Neither was it an attempt to get into a uniform before the war is over for certain effects with the ladies. I am really sorry I couldn’t get in, principally, I suppose, because I had made my mind up, and disposed of so many seductive distractions, such as, (well--) love, poetry, career, etc. Now the damned things come back again, sporting about me with all too much familiarity. I may go to New York, I may remain here, I may explode, Lord knows. Thank your stars that you have a settled course to follow, and write soon. 15: TO CHARLES C. BUBB _Cleveland, Ohio_ _November 13, ’18_