[Illustration]
Jan. 20th.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle
in infancy?
Maybe I am she! If we were in a novel, that would be the dénouement,
wouldn’t it?
It’s really awfully queer not to know what one is--sort of exciting
and romantic. There are such a lot of possibilities. Maybe I’m not
American; lots of people aren’t. I may be straight descended from
the ancient Romans, or I may be a Viking’s daughter, or I may be the
child of a Russian exile and belong by rights in a Siberian prison,
or maybe I’m a Gipsy--I think perhaps I am. I have a very
_wandering_ spirit, though I haven’t as yet had much chance to
develop it.
Do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career--the time I
ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing
cookies? It’s down in the books free for any Trustee to read. But
really, Daddy, what could you expect? When you put a hungry little
nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at
her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in
again, wouldn’t you expect to find her a bit crumby? And then when
you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the
table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that
it’s because she’s a thief, wouldn’t you expect her to run away?
I only ran four miles. They caught me and brought me back; and every
day for a week I was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the
back yard while the other children were out at recess.
Oh, dear! There’s the chapel bell, and after chapel I have a
committee meeting. I’m sorry because I meant to write you a _very_
entertaining letter this time.
_Auf wiedersehen_
_Cher_ Daddy
_Pax tibi!_