Sunday.
_Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs_,
I have some awful, awful, awful news to tell you, but I won’t begin
with it; I’ll try to get you in a good humor first.
Jerusha Abbott has commenced to be an author. A poem entitled, “From
my Tower,” appears in the February _Monthly_--on the first page,
which is a very great honor for a Freshman. My English instructor
stopped me on the way out from chapel last night, and said it was a
charming piece of work except for the sixth line, which had too many
feet. I will send you a copy in case you care to read it.
Let me see if I can’t think of something else pleasant--Oh, yes!
I’m learning to skate, and can glide about quite respectably all by
myself. Also I’ve learned how to slide down a rope from the roof of
the gymnasium, and I can vault a bar three feet and six inches
high--I hope shortly to pull up to four feet.
We had a very inspiring sermon this morning preached by the Bishop
of Alabama. His text was: “Judge not that ye be not judged.” It was
about the necessity of overlooking mistakes in others, and not
discouraging people by harsh judgments. I wish you might have heard
it.
This is the sunniest, most blinding winter afternoon, with icicles
dripping from the fir trees and all the world bending under a weight
of snow--except me, and I’m bending under a weight of sorrow.
Now for the news--courage, Judy!--you must tell.
Are you _surely_ in a good humor? I flunked mathematics and Latin
prose. I am tutoring in them, and will take another examination next
month. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but otherwise I don’t
care a bit because I’ve learned such a lot of things not mentioned
in the catalogue. I’ve read seventeen novels and _bushels_ of
poetry--really necessary novels like “Vanity Fair” and “Richard
Feverel” and “Alice in Wonderland.” Also Emerson’s “Essays” and
Lockhart’s “Life of Scott” and the first volume of Gibbon’s “Roman
Empire” and half of Benvenuto Cellini’s “Life”--wasn’t he
entertaining? He used to saunter out and casually kill a man before
breakfast.
So you see, Daddy, I’m much more intelligent than if I’d just
stuck to Latin. Will you forgive me this once if I promise never to
flunk again?
Yours in sackcloth,