The Hon. Cy has been calling again. He drops in with great frequency,
hoping to catch me IN DELICTU. How I do not like that man! He is a pink,
fat, puffy old thing, with a pink, fat, puffy soul. I was in a very
cheery, optimistic frame of mind before his arrival, but now I shall do
nothing but grumble for the rest of the day.
He deplores all of the useless innovations that I am endeavoring to
introduce, such as a cheerful playroom, prettier clothes, baths, and
better food and fresh air and play and fun and ice-cream and kisses.
He says that I will unfit these children to occupy the position in life
that God has called them to occupy.
At that my Irish blood came to the surface, and I told him that if
God had planned to make all of these 113 little children into useless,
ignorant, unhappy citizens, I was going to fool God! That we weren't
educating them out of their class in the least. We were educating them
INTO their natural class much more effectually than is done in the
average family. We weren't trying to force them into college if they
hadn't any brains, as happens with rich men's sons; and we weren't
putting them to work at fourteen if they were naturally ambitious,
as happens with poor men's sons. We were watching them closely and
individually and discovering their level. If our children showed an
aptitude to become farm laborers and nurse-maids, we were going to teach
them to be the best possible farm laborers and nurse-maids; and if they
showed a tendency to become lawyers, we would turn them into honest,
intelligent, open-minded lawyers. (He's a lawyer himself, but certainly
not an open-minded one.)
He grunted when I had finished my remarks, and stirred his tea
vigorously. Whereupon I suggested that perhaps he needed another lump of
sugar, and dropped it in, and left him to absorb it.
The only way to deal with trustees is with a firm and steady hand. You
have to keep them in their places.
Oh, my dear! that smudge in the corner was caused by Singapore's black
tongue. He is trying to send you an affectionate kiss. Poor Sing thinks
he's a lap dog--isn't it a tragedy when people mistake their vocations?
I myself am not always certain that I was born an orphan asylum
superintendent.
Yours, til deth,
S. McB.