O Judy, such a calamity! Do you remember several weeks ago I told you
about placing out a nice little girl in a nice family home where I
hoped she would be adopted? It was a kind Christian family living in
a pleasant country village, the foster-father a deacon in the church.
Hattie was a sweet, obedient, housewifely little body, and it looked
as though we had exactly fitted them to each other. My dear, she was
returned this morning for STEALING. Scandal piled on scandal: SHE HAD
STOLEN A COMMUNION CUP FROM CHURCH!
Between her sobs and their accusations it took me half an hour to gather
the truth. It seems that the church they attend is very modern and
hygienic, like our doctor, and has introduced individual communion cups.
Poor little Hattie had never heard of communion in her life. In fact,
she wasn't very used to church, Sunday-school having always sufficed for
her simple religious needs. But in her new home she attended both, and
one day, to her pleased surprise, they served refreshments. But they
skipped her. She made no comment, however; she is used to being skipped.
But as they were starting home she saw that the little silver cup had
been casually left in the seat, and supposing that it was a souvenir
that you could take if you wished, she put it into her pocket.
It came to light two days later as the most treasured ornament of her
doll's-house. It seems that Hattie long ago saw a set of doll's dishes
in a toy shop window, and has ever since dreamed of possessing a set of
her own. The communion cup was not quite the same, but it answered.
Now, if our family had only had a little less religion and a little more
sense, they would have returned the cup, perfectly unharmed, and have
marched Hattie to the nearest toy shop and bought her some dishes. But
instead, they bundled the child and her belongings into the first train
they could catch, and shoved her in at our front door, proclaiming
loudly that she was a thief.
I am pleased to say that I gave that indignant deacon and his wife such
a thorough scolding as I am sure they have never listened to from the
pulpit. I borrowed some vigorous bits from Sandy's vocabulary, and sent
them home quite humbled. As for poor little Hattie, here she is back
again, after going out with such high hopes. It has an awfully bad moral
effect on a child to be returned to the asylum in disgrace, especially
when she wasn't aware of committing a crime. It gives her a feeling that
the world is full of unknown pitfalls, and makes her afraid to take
a step. I must bend all my energies now toward finding another set of
parents for her, and ones that haven't grown so old and settled and good
that they have entirely forgotten their own childhood.
Sunday.
I forgot to tell you that our new farmer is here, Turnfelt by name; and
his wife is a love, yellow hair and dimples. If she were an orphan,
I could place her in a minute. We can't let her go to waste. I have
a beautiful plan of building an addition to the farmer's cottage, and
establishing under her comfortable care a sort of brooding-house where
we can place our new little chicks, to make sure they haven't anything
contagious and to eliminate as much profanity as possible before turning
them loose among our other perfect chicks.
How does that strike you? It is very necessary in an institution as full
of noise and movement and stir as this to have some isolated spot where
we can put cases needing individual attention. Some of our children
have inherited nerves, and a period of quiet contemplation is indicated.
Isn't my vocabulary professional and scientific? Daily intercourse with
Dr. Robin MacRae is extremely educational.
Since Turnfelt came, you should see our pigs. They are so clean and pink
and unnatural that they don't recognize one another any more as they
pass.
Our potato field is also unrecognizable. It has been divided with string
and pegs into as many squares as a checker-board, and every child has
staked out a claim. Seed catalogues form our only reading matter.
Noah has just returned from a trip to the village for the Sunday papers
to amuse his leisure. Noah is a very cultivated person; he not only
reads perfectly, but he wears tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles while he
does it. He also brought from the post office a letter from you, written
Friday night. I am pained to note that you do not care for "Gosta
Berling" and that Jervis doesn't. The only comment I can make is, "What
a shocking lack of literary taste in the Pendleton family!"
Dr. MacRae has another doctor visiting him, a very melancholy gentleman
who is at the head of a private psychopathic institution, and thinks
there's no good in life. But I suppose this pessimistic view is natural
if you eat three meals a day with a tableful of melancholics. He goes
up and down the world looking for signs of degeneracy, and finds them
everywhere. I expected, after half an hour's conversation, that he would
ask to look down my throat to see if I had a cleft palate. Sandy's taste
in friends seems to resemble his taste in literature. Gracious! this is
a letter!
Good-by.