April 24.
Dear Jervis Pendleton, Esq.:
This is to supplement a night telegram which I sent you ten minutes
ago. Fifty words not being enough to convey any idea of my emotions, I
herewith add a thousand.
As you will know by the time you receive this, I have discharged the
farmer, and he has refused to be discharged. Being twice the size of me,
I can't lug him to the gate and chuck him out. He wants a notification
from the president of the board of trustees written in vigorous language
on official paper in typewriting. So, dear president of the board of
trustees, kindly supply all of this at your earliest convenience.
Here follows the history of the case:
The winter season still being with us when I arrived and farming
activities at a low ebb, I have heretofore paid little attention to
Robert Sterry except to note on two occasions that his pigpens needed
cleaning; but today I sent for him to come and consult with me in regard
to spring planting.
Sterry came, as requested, and seated himself at ease in my office with
his hat upon his head. I suggested as tactfully as might be that he
remove it, an entirely necessary request, as little orphan boys were
in and out on errands, and "hats off in the house" is our first rule in
masculine deportment.
Sterry complied with my request, and stiffened himself to be against
whatever I might desire.
I proceeded to the subject in hand, namely, that the diet of the
John Grier Home in the year to come is to consist less exclusively of
potatoes. At which our farmer grunted in the manner of the Hon. Cyrus
Wykoff, only it was a less ethereal and gentlemanly grunt than a trustee
permits himself. I enumerated corn and beans and onions and peas and
tomatoes and beets and carrots and turnips as desirable substitutes.
Sterry observed that if potatoes and cabbages was good enough for him,
he guessed they was good enough for charity children.
I proceeded imperturbably to say that the two-acre potato field was to
be plowed and fertilized, and laid out into sixty individual gardens,
the boys assisting in the work.
At that Sterry exploded. The two-acre field was the most fertile and
valuable piece of earth on the whole place. He guessed if I was to break
that up into play gardens for the children to mess about in, I'd be
hearing about it pretty danged quick from the board of trustees. That
field was fitted for potatoes, it had always raised potatoes, and it was
going to continue to raise them just as long as he had anything to say
about it.
"You have nothing whatever to say about it," I amiably replied. "I
have decided that the two-acre field is the best plot to use for the
children's gardens, and you and the potatoes will have to give way."
Whereupon he rose in a storm of bucolic wrath, and said he'd be gol
darned if he'd have a lot of these danged city brats interfering with
his work.
I explained--very calmly for a red-haired person with Irish
forebears--that this place was run for the exclusive benefit of these
children; that the children were not here to be exploited for the
benefit of the place, a philosophy which he did not grasp, though my
fancy city language had a slightly dampening effect. I added that what
I required in a farmer was the ability and patience to instruct the
boys in gardening and simple outdoor work; that I wished a man of
large sympathies whose example would be an inspiring influence to these
children of the city streets.
Sterry, pacing about like a caged woodchuck, launched into a tirade
about silly Sunday-school notions, and, by a transition which I did not
grasp, passed to a review of the general subject of woman's suffrage.
I gathered that he is not in favor of the movement. I let him argue
himself quiet, then I handed him a check for his wages, and told him to
vacate the tenant house by twelve o'clock next Wednesday.
Sterry says he'll be danged if he will. (Excuse so many DANGEDS. It
is the creature's only adjective.) He was engaged to work for this
institution by the president of the board of trustees, and he will not
move from that house until the president of the board of trustees tells
him to go. I don't think poor Sterry realizes that since his arrival a
new president has come to the throne.
ALORS you have the story. I make no threats, but Sterry or McBride--take
your choice, dear sir.
I am also about to write to the head of the Massachusetts Agricultural
College, at Amherst, asking him to recommend a good, practical man with
a nice, efficient, cheerful wife, who will take the entire care of our
modest domain of seventeen acres, and who will be a man with the right
personality to place over our boys.
If we get the farming end of this institution into running shape, it
ought to furnish not only beans and onions for the table, but education
for our hands and brains.
I remain, sir, Yours most truly, S. McBRIDE, Superintendent of the John
Grier Home.
P.S. I think that Sterry will probably come back some night and throw
rocks through the windows. Shall I have them insured?
My dear Enemy:
You disappeared so quickly this afternoon that I had no chance to thank
you, but the echoes of that discharge penetrated as far as my library.
Also, I have viewed the debris. What on earth did you do to poor Sterry?
Watching the purposeful set of your shoulders as you strode toward the
carriage house, I was filled with sudden compunction. I did not want the
man murdered, merely reasoned with. I am afraid you were a little harsh.
However, your technic seems to have been effective. Report says that he
has telephoned for a moving wagon and that Mrs. Sterry is even now on
her hands and knees ripping up the parlor carpet.
For this relief much thanks.
SALLIE McBRIDE.
April 26.
Dear Jervis:
Your vigorous telegram was, after all, not needed. Dr. Robin MacRae, who
is a grand PAWKY mon when it comes to a fight, accomplished the business
with beautiful directness. I was so bubbling with rage that immediately
after writing to you I called up the doctor on the telephone, and
rehearsed the whole business over again. Now, our Sandy, whatever his
failings (and he has them), does have an uncommon supply of common
sense. He knows how useful those gardens are going to be, and how worse
than useless Sterry was. Also says he, "The superintendent's authority
must be upheld." (That, incidentally, is beautiful, coming from him.)
But anyway, those were his words. And he hung up the receiver, cranked
up his car, and flew up here at lawless speed. He marched straight to
Sterry, impelled by a fine Scotch rage, and he discharged the man with
such vigor and precision, that the carriage house window was shattered
to fragments.
Since this morning at eleven, when Sterry's wagonload of furniture
rumbled out of the gates, a sweet peace has reigned over the J. G. H.
A man from the village is helping us out while we hopefully await the
farmer of our dreams.
I am sorry to have troubled you with our troubles. Tell Judy that she
owes me a letter, and won't hear from me until she has paid it. Your ob'd't
servant,
S. McBRIDE.
Dear Judy:
In my letter of yesterday to Jervis I forgotted (Punch's word) to convey
to you our thanks for three tin bathtubs. The skyblue tub with poppies
on the side adds a particularly bright note to the nursery. I do love
presents for the babies that are too big to be swallowed.
You will be pleased to hear that our manual training is well under way.
The carpenter benches are being installed in the old primary room,
and until our schoolhouse gets its new addition, our primary class
is meeting on the front porch, in accordance with Miss Matthew's able
suggestion.
The girls' sewing classes are also in progress. A circle of benches
under the copper beech tree accommodates the hand sewers, while the big
girls take turns at our three machines. Just as soon as they gain
some proficiency we will begin the glorious work of redressing the
institution. I know you think I'm slow, but it's really a task to
accomplish one hundred and eighty new frocks. And the girls will
appreciate them so much more if they do the work themselves.
I may also report that our hygiene system has risen to a high level. Dr.
MacRae has introduced morning and evening exercises, and a glass of milk
and a game of tag in the middle of school hours. He has instituted a
physiology class, and has separated the children into small groups, so
that they may come to his house, where he has a manikin that comes apart
and shows all its messy insides. They can now rattle off scientific
truths about their little digestions as fluently as Mother Goose rhymes.
We are really becoming too intelligent for recognition. You would never
guess that we were orphans to hear us talk; we are quite like Boston
children.