New York City, Monday—Yesterday morning, in Hyde Park, the day dawned gloriously; a blue sky and cold, crisp weather. I went out to discuss the best place for a garden with the man who does the outside work. We are going to plant extra things for ourselves and for preserving purposes and winter use, as well as some things which we can contribute, if necessary, to the school lunch program, should their supplies from surplus commodities be reduced this coming year.

I found considerable concern about how we are going to manage on the place with only one station wagon, which I have told them to use only once a week for going to town. I suggested mildly that I thought it was time we made the rounds of our neighbors and start some kind of a cooperative arrangement for buying supplies and, since I was not at Hyde Park often enough, I would leave it to them to get together.

It seems to me that this is really an essential first step in realizing that we are fighting a war.

Somehow or other, when I walked through the woods and as I sat in front of my fire, I realized for the first time how easy it would be to forget what is happening in the outside world, if one were not tied to it by strings of affection, or just left the radio turned off.

One change has taken place. The boy who usually delivers news papers on Sundays, does not do so on account of tires. It only serves to make you feel even more remote from the excitement of the outside world. And we are only 70 miles from New York City and on one of the main highways!

Mr. Frederick Delano and some of his family came to lunch. Afterwards, Miss Thompson and I went back to New York City for my broadcast in the evening.

This morning, I have been to the Brooklyn Naval Hospital, have visited a friend and have done several errands. Now, before flying back to Washington this afternoon, we are taking a last look at such things as ornaments and books, because two vans will have to be packed next week with things that are going to Hyde Park.

I found my son very much elated over the gift of the book, "Flight to Arras" with an inscription by the author Antoine de St. Exupery. Franklin, Jr., has found the book most interesting and filled with passages which he wanted me to read, so I must hurry and do so.