May 4th.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Field Day last Saturday. It was a very spectacular occasion. First
we had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white
linen, the Seniors carrying blue and gold Japanese umbrellas,
and the Juniors white and yellow banners. Our class had crimson
balloons--very fetching, especially as they were always getting
loose and floating off--and the Freshmen wore green tissue-paper
hats with long streamers. Also we had a band in blue uniforms hired
from town. Also about a dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus,
to keep the spectators entertained between events.
Julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and
whiskers and baggy umbrella. Patsy Moriarty (Patricia, really.
Did you ever hear such a name? Mrs. Lippett couldn’t have done better.)
who is tall and thin was Julia’s wife in an absurd green bonnet over
one ear. Waves of laughter followed them the whole length of the
course. Julia played the part extremely well. I never dreamed that a
Pendleton could display so much comedy spirit--begging Master
Jervie’s pardon; I don’t consider him a true Pendleton though,
any more than I consider you a true Trustee.
Sallie and I weren’t in the parade because we were entered for the
events. And what do you think? We both won! At least in something.
We tried for the running broad jump and lost; but Sallie won the
pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches) and I won the fifty-yard
dash (eight seconds).
I was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the
whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling:
What’s the matter with Judy Abbott?
She’s all right.
Who’s all right?
Judy Ab-bott!
[Illustration: “Judy Wins the Fifty Yard Dash”]
That, Daddy, is true fame. Then trotting back to the dressing tent
and being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. You
see we’re very professional. It’s a fine thing to win an event for
your class, because the class that wins the most gets the athletic
cup for the year. The Seniors won it this year, with seven events
to their credit. The athletic association gave a dinner in the
gymnasium to all of the winners. We had fried soft-shell crabs, and
chocolate ice-cream molded in the shape of basket balls.
I sat up half of last night reading “Jane Eyre.” Are you old enough,
Daddy, to remember sixty years ago? And if so, did people talk that
way?
The haughty Lady Blanche says to the footman, “Stop your chattering,
knave, and do my bidding.” Mr. Rochester talks about the metal
welkin when he means the sky; and as for the mad woman who laughs
like a hyena and sets fire to bed curtains and tears up wedding
veils and _bites_--it’s melodrama of the purest, but just the same,
you read and read and read. I can’t see how any girl could have
written such a book, especially any girl who was brought up in a
churchyard. There’s something about those Brontés that fascinates
me. Their books, their lives, their spirit. Where did they get it?
When I was reading about little Jane’s troubles in the charity
school, I got so angry that I had to go out and take a walk.
I understood exactly how she felt. Having known Mrs. Lippett,
I could see Mr. Brocklehurst.
Don’t be outraged, Daddy. I am not intimating that the John Grier
Home was like the Lowood Institute. We had plenty to eat and plenty
to wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar.
But there was one deadly likeness. Our lives were absolutely
monotonous and uneventful. Nothing nice ever happened, except
ice-cream on Sundays, and even that was regular. In all the eighteen
years I was there I only had one adventure--when the woodshed
burned. We had to get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in
case the house should catch. But it didn’t catch and we went back
to bed.
Everybody likes a few surprises; it’s a perfectly natural human
craving. But I never had one until Mrs. Lippett called me to the
office to tell me that Mr. John Smith was going to send me to
college. And then she broke the news so gradually that it just
barely shocked me.
You know, Daddy, I think that the most necessary quality for any
person to have is imagination. It makes people able to put
themselves in other people’s places. It makes them kind and
sympathetic and understanding. It ought to be cultivated in
children. But the John Grier Home instantly stamped out the
slightest flicker that appeared. Duty was the one quality that was
encouraged. I don’t think children ought to know the meaning of the
word; it’s odious, detestable. They ought to do everything from
love.
Wait until you see the orphan asylum that I am going to be the head
of! It’s my favorite play at night before I go to sleep. I plan it
out to the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and study and
amusements and punishments; for even my superior orphans are
sometimes bad.
But anyway, they are going to be happy. I think that every one, no
matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have
a happy childhood to look back upon. And if I ever have any children
of my own, no matter how unhappy I may be, I am not going to let
them have any cares until they grow up.
(There goes the chapel bell--I’ll finish this letter sometime.)
Thursday.
When I came in from laboratory this afternoon, I found a squirrel
sitting on the tea table helping himself to almonds. These are the
kind of callers we entertain now that warm weather has come and the
window stays open--
[Illustration: “My dear Mrs. Centipede, will you have one lump
or two?”]
Saturday morning.
Perhaps you think, last night being Friday, with no classes to-day,
that I passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of
Stevenson that I bought with my prize money? But if so, you’ve
never attended a girls’ college, Daddy dear. Six friends dropped in
to make fudge, and one of them dropped the fudge--while it was still
liquid--right in the middle of our best rug. We shall never be able
to clean up the mess.
I haven’t mentioned any lessons of late; but we are still having
them every day. It’s sort of a relief though, to get away from them
and discuss life in the large--rather one-sided discussions that you
and I hold, but that’s your own fault. You are welcome to answer
back any time you choose.
I’ve been writing this letter off and on for three days, and I fear
by now _vous êtes bien_ bored!
Good-by, nice Mr. Man,