(Née Jerusha.)
Saturday morning.
I’ve just been reading this letter over and it sounds pretty
un-cheerful. But can’t you guess that I have a special topic due
Monday morning and a review in geometry and a very sneezy cold?
Sunday.
I forgot to mail this yesterday so I will add an indignant
postscript. We had a bishop this morning, and _what do you think he
said?_
“The most beneficent promise made us in the Bible is this, ‘The poor
ye have always with you.’ They were put here in order to keep us
charitable.”
The poor, please observe, being a sort of useful domestic animal.
If I hadn’t grown into such a perfect lady, I should have gone up
after service and told him what I thought.
October 25th.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
I’ve made the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on
my left shoulder. It’s blue and mahogany with little streaks of
orange. Julia Pendleton tried for the team, but she didn’t make it.
Hooray!
You see what a mean disposition I have.
College gets nicer and nicer. I like the girls and the teachers and
the classes and the campus and the things to eat. We have ice-cream
twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush.
You only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn’t you? And I’ve
been peppering you with letters every few days! But I’ve been so
excited about all these new adventures that I _must_ talk to
somebody; and you’re the only one I know. Please excuse my
exuberance; I’ll settle pretty soon. If my letters bore you, you
can always toss them into the waste-basket. I promise not to write
another till the middle of November.
Yours most loquaciously,