Dear Madam:
Your four letters, two telegrams, and three checks are at hand, and
your instructions shall be obeyed just as quickly as this overworked
superintendent can manage it.
I delegated the dining room job to Betsy Kindred. One hundred dollars
did I allow her for the rehabilitation of that dreary apartment. She
accepted the trust, picked out five likely orphans to assist in the
mechanical details, and closed the door.
For three days the children have been eating from the desks in the
schoolroom. I haven't an idea what Betsy is doing; but she has a lot
better taste than I, so there isn't much use in interfering.
It is such a heaven-sent relief to be able to leave something to
somebody else, and be sure it will be carried out! With all due respect
to the age and experience of the staff I found here, they are not very
open to new ideas. As the John Grier Home was planned by its noble
founder in 1875, so shall it be run today.
Incidentally, my dear Judy, your idea of a private dining room for the
superintendent, which I, being a social soul, at first scorned, has
been my salvation. When I am dead tired I dine alone, but in my live
intervals I invite an officer to share the meal; and in the expansive
intimacy of the dinner-table I get in my most effective strokes. When it
becomes desirable to plant the seeds of fresh air in the soul of Miss
Snaith, I invite her to dinner, and tactfully sandwich in a little
oxygen between her slices of pressed veal.
Pressed veal is our cook's idea of an acceptable PIECE DE RESISTANCE
for a dinner party. In another month I am going to face the subject of
suitable nourishment for the executive staff.
Meanwhile there are so many things more important than our own comfort
that we shall have to worry along on veal.
A terrible bumping has just occurred outside my door. One little cherub
seems to be kicking another little cherub downstairs. But I write on
undisturbed. If I am to spend my days among orphans, I must cultivate a
cheerful detachment.
Did you get Leonora Fenton's cards? She's marrying a medical missionary
and going to Siam to live! Did you ever hear of anything so absurd as
Leonora presiding over a missionary's menage? Do you suppose she will
entertain the heathen with skirt dances?
It isn't any absurder, though, than me in an orphan asylum, or you as a
conservative settled matron, or Marty Keene a social butterfly in Paris.
Do you suppose she goes to embassy balls in riding clothes, and what on
earth does she do about hair? It couldn't have grown so soon; she must
wear a wig. Isn't our class turning out some hilarious surprises?
The mail arrives. Excuse me while I read a nice fat letter from
Washington.
Not so nice; quite impertinent. Gordon can't get over the idea that it
is a joke, S. McB. in conjunction with one hundred and thirteen orphans.
But he wouldn't think it such a joke if he could try it for a few days.
He says he is going to drop off here on his next trip North and watch
the struggle. How would it be if I left him in charge while I dashed to
New York to accomplish some shopping? Our sheets are all worn out, and
we haven't more than two hundred and eleven blankets in the house.
Singapore, sole puppy of my heart and home, sends his respectful love. I
also, S. McB.