August 10th.
_Mr. Daddy-Long-Legs_,
SIR: I address you from the second crotch in the willow tree by the
pool in the pasture. There’s a frog croaking underneath, a locust
singing overhead and two little “devil down-heads” darting up and
down the trunk. I’ve been here for an hour; it’s a very
comfortable crotch, especially after being upholstered with two sofa
cushions. I came up with a pen and tablet hoping to write an
immortal short story, but I’ve been having a dreadful time with my
heroine--I _can’t_ make her behave as I want her to behave; so I’ve
abandoned her for the moment, and am writing to you. (Not much
relief though, for I can’t make you behave as I want you to,
either.)
If you are in that dreadful New York, I wish I could send you some
of this lovely, breezy, sunshiny outlook. The country is Heaven
after a week of rain.
Speaking of Heaven--do you remember Mr. Kellogg that I told you
about last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the
Corners. Well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia.
I went half-a-dozen times to hear him preach and got very well
acquainted with his theology. He believed to the end, exactly the
same things he started with. It seems to me that a man who can think
straight along for forty-seven years without changing a single idea
ought to be kept in a cabinet as a curiosity. I hope he is enjoying
his harp and golden crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them!
There’s a new young man, very up and coming, in his place. The
congregation is pretty dubious, especially the faction led by Deacon
Cummings. It looks as though there was going to be an awful split in
the church. We don’t care for innovations in religion in this
neighborhood.
During our week of rain I sat up in the attic and had an orgie of
reading--Stevenson, mostly. He himself is more entertaining than any
of the characters in his books; I dare say he made himself into the
kind of hero that would look well in print. Don’t you think it was
perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father
left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the South Seas? He lived up
to his adventurous creed. If my father had left me ten thousand
dollars, I’d do it, too. The thought of Vailima makes me wild.
I want to see the tropics. I want to see the whole world. I am going
to some day--I am, really, Daddy, when I get to be a great author,
or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a great
person I turn out to be. I have a terrible wanderthirst; the very
sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella
and start. “I shall see before I die the palms and temples of the
South.”
Thursday evening at twilight, sitting on the doorstep.
Very hard to get any news into this letter! Judy is becoming so
philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the
world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of
daily life. But if you _must_ have news, here it is:
[Illustration]
Our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last
Tuesday, and only eight came back. We don’t want to accuse any one
unjustly, but we suspect that Widow Dowd has one more than she ought
to have.
Mr. Weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin
yellow--a very ugly color, but he says it will wear.
The Brewers have company this week; Mrs. Brewer’s sister and two
nieces from Ohio.
[Illustration]
One of our Rhode Island Reds only brought off three chicks out of
fifteen eggs. We can’t imagine what was the trouble. Rhode Island
Reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. I prefer Buff
Orpingtons.
The new clerk in the post-office at Bonnyrigg Four Corners drank
every drop of Jamaica ginger they had in stock--seven dollars’
worth--before he was discovered.
Old Ira Hatch has rheumatism and can’t work any more; he never saved
his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on
the town.
There’s to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next Saturday
evening. Come and bring your families.
I have a new hat that I bought for twenty-five cents at the
post-office. This is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay.
It’s getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up.
Good night,