Here’s a letter from the guy who was going to get to bed early tonight, but it’s far too late to be early.

He’s almost ashamed to admit that he hasn’t had a haircut since before they went to Sunapee. He must try to convince some hard-working barber to shear the bushels of hair that are spouting from his head and cascading down his neck. (He draws a sheep dog to demonstrate his current look.)

Last night he worked on a personal essay and began to type it around midnight. At 1:15, with one page typed, he decided he’d better get some shut-eye if he was going to stay awake for his 10:15 American Lit test. “As I said before, only this time I mean it, I did lousy on Prof. Carter’s little baby. Some things I missed outright, and though I beat around the bush with my pen for 75 minutes, I couldn’t give him the material he asked us to include in our answers. He’s a rough grader, besides.”

“I got some more good Journalism papers back on Monday. I also received a B on the ‘problem’ essay I turned in for Prose Workshop. There was very little comment on it, except for a word or two of praise at the beginning and the same at the end. Mom & Pop liked today’s offering, my description of an effectual or effective person, quite well. (The typing was better, too.) I chose to write with a basis of fact again, rather than resort to fiction, at which I am unskilled, and I took Captain Soballe of the Haggard as my subject.”

“I have errands to run tomorrow, including the hunting of a job and the doing of some library work. So if you don’t mind, I’ll throw this heap of tired bones and achy head down on my pallet, pull up my tatters, and fall into the arms of Sleep. Wish it were the arms of Dot.”