March 8.
My dear Judy:
I myself have bestowed a little present upon the John Grier Home--the
refurnishing of the superintendent's private parlor. I saw the first
night here that neither I nor any future occupant could be happy
with Mrs. Lippett's electric plush. You see, I am planning to make my
successor contented and willing to stay.
Betsy Kindred assisted in the rehabilitation of the Lippett's chamber
of horrors, and between us we have created a symphony in dull blue and
gold. Really and truly, it's one of the loveliest rooms you've ever
seen. The sight of it will be an artistic education to any orphan.
New paper on the wall, new rugs on the floor (my own prized Persians
expressed from Worcester by an expostulating family). New casement
curtains at my three windows, revealing a wide and charming view,
hitherto hidden by Nottingham lace. A new big table, some lamps and
books and a picture or so, and a real open fire. She had closed the
fireplace because it let in air.
I never realized what a difference artistic surroundings make in the
peace of one's soul. I sat last night and watched my fire throw nice
highlights on my new old fender, and purred with contentment. And I
assure you it's the first purr that has come from this cat since she
entered the gates of the John Grier Home.
But the refurnishing of the superintendent's parlor is the slightest
of our needs. The children's private apartments demand so much basic
attention that I can't decide where to begin. That dark north playroom
is a shocking scandal, but no more shocking than our hideous dining room
or our unventilated dormitories or our tubless lavatories.
If the institution is very saving, do you think it can ever afford to
burn down this smelly old original building, and put up instead some
nice, ventilated modern cottages? I cannot contemplate that wonderful
institution at Hastings without being filled with envy. It would be some
fun to run an asylum if you had a plant like that to work with. But,
anyway, when you get back to New York and are ready to consult the
architect about remodeling, please apply to me for suggestions. Among
other little details I want two hundred feet of sleeping porch running
along the outside of our dormitories.
You see, it's this way: our physical examination reveals the fact that
about half of our children are aenemic--aneamic--anaemic (Mercy! what
a word!), and a lot of them have tubercular ancestors, and more have
alcoholic. Their first need is oxygen rather than education. And if the
sickly ones need it, why wouldn't it be good for the well ones? I should
like to have every child, winter and summer, sleeping in the open air;
but I know that if I let fall such a bomb on the board of trustees, the
whole body would explode.
Speaking of trustees, I have met up with the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff, and
I really believe that I dislike him more than Dr. Robin MacRae or
the kindergarten teacher or the cook. I seem to have a genius for
discovering enemies!
Mr. Wykoff called on Wednesday last to look over the new superintendent.
Having lowered himself into my most comfortable armchair, he proceeded
to spend the day. He asked my father's business, and whether or not he
was well-to-do. I told him that my father manufactured overalls, and
that, even in these hard times, the demand for overalls was pretty
steady.
He seemed relieved. He approves of the utilitarian aspect of overalls.
He had been afraid that I had come from the family of a minister or
professor or writer, a lot of high thinking and no common sense. Cyrus
believes in common sense.
And what had been my training for this position?
That, as you know, is a slightly embarrassing question. But I produced
my college education and a few lectures at the School of Philanthropy,
also a short residence in the college settlement (I didn't tell him
that all I had done there was to paint the back hall and stairs). Then
I submitted some social work among my father's employees and a few
friendly visits to the Home for Female Inebriates.
To all of which he grunted.
I added that I had lately made a study of the care of dependent
children, and casually mentioned my seventeen institutions.
He grunted again, and said he didn't take much stock in this new-fangled
scientific charity.
At this point Jane entered with a box of roses from the florist's.
That blessed Gordon Hallock sends me roses twice a week to brighten the
rigors of institution life.
Our trustee began an indignant investigation. He wished to know where I
got those flowers, and was visibly relieved when he learned that I had
not spent the institution's money for them. He next wished to know who
Jane might be. I had foreseen that question and decided to brazen it
out.
"My maid," said I.
"Your what?" he bellowed, quite red in the face.
"My maid."
"What is she doing here?"
I amiably went into details. "She mends my clothes, blacks my boots,
keeps my bureau drawers in order, washes my hair."
I really thought the man would choke, so I charitably added that I paid
her wages out of my own private income, and paid five dollars and fifty
cents a week to the institution for her board; and that, though she was
big, she didn't eat much.
He allowed that I might make use of one of the orphans for all
legitimate service.
I explained--still polite, but growing bored--that Jane had been in my
service for many years, and was indispensable.
He finally took himself off, after telling me that he, for one,
had never found any fault with Mrs. Lippett. She was a common-sense
Christian woman, without many fancy ideas, but with plenty of good solid
work in her. He hoped that I would be wise enough to model my policy
upon hers!
And what, my dear Judy, do you think of that?
The doctor dropped in a few minutes later, and I repeated the Hon.
Cyrus's conversation in detail. For the first time in the history of our
intercourse the doctor and I agreed.
"Mrs. Lippett indeed!" he growled. "The blethering auld gomerel! May the
Lord send him mair sense!"
When our doctor really becomes aroused, he drops into Scotch. My latest
pet name for him (behind his back) is Sandy.
Sadie Kate is sitting on the floor as I write, untangling sewing-silks
and winding them neatly for Jane, who is becoming quite attached to the
little imp.
"I am writing to your Aunt Judy," say I to Sadie Kate. "What message
shall I send from you?"
"I never heard of no Aunt Judy."
"She is the aunt of every good little girl in this school."
"Tell her to come and visit me and bring some candy," says Sadie Kate.