152 University Ave.
Monday morning [18 July 1944]

Dearest ones:

Here I am at the old desk in the old room looking out through the same old window at the same old library. I got in on time last night, took a taxi to 152 and spent an hour getting my clothes and books unpacked and put in orderly arrangement in the bureau drawers and in the cupboard.

I went to bed at ten and had a fair night's sleep except for the barking of a Springer spaniel next door which out-Jacked Jack till they took him in at 11:30.

This morning I thought I would get up early and see what Kingston looked like in the cool dew, so quite smartly I jumped out of bed at ten minutes to eight and walked around the Queen's buildings. By the way the fire[?] alarm went off [...] the grip when my trainman[?] was getting it unchecked at the train delivery room. It rang merrily for one minute and the man thought it might be a time-bomb. He came running over to me to know what it was. On the way to the house I tinkled[?] with every lurch of the car much to the amusement of the three other passengers.

I spent the forenoon working over my first lecture for tomorrow morning. This afternoon I see Roy and the other members of the staff. They tell me that the enrolment is heavy, strange to say.

There is only one other tenant in the house – Professor Brovedani who teaches Spanish. He is very deaf and when remarking about his infirmity last night, he confided to me that deafness had its compensations – 'he can't catch half the bad Spanish spoken by his class.'

When my silken gown comes next week (hint) I shall be all set for night perambulation.

It is strange that there are only two tenants in this big house, but the reason is that Mrs Cartwright is carrying on her deceased husband's business and is too weary at the end of the day to do any housekeeping. Other than that, though, she is quite well and about the same as four years ago. Poor Dr Austin is sick in the hospital with a bad thrombosis. The Stanleys look the same. I saw Herb this morning and as he plays only nine holes in the late afternoon his company will suit me fine. Now my two sweethearts, do look after your dear hides, see that the doors are locked at night, that the elements are turned off and that you don't do any thing hea[..].

Most lovingly,
Father Ned.

Viola and Claire Pratt.

old library
Pratt's usual lodging when teaching summer school at Queen's University. See the note to that '7.00 weekly room' in the letter to George Herbert Clarke, 28 January 1938.