Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Field Day last Saturday. It was a very spectacular occasion. First we
had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white linen,
the Seniors carrying blue and gold Japanese umbrellas, and the juniors
white and yellow banners. Our class had crimson balloons--very
fetching, especially as they were always getting loose and floating
off--and the Freshmen wore green tissue-paper hats with long streamers.
Also we had a band in blue uniforms hired from town. Also about a
dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus, to keep the spectators
entertained between events.
Julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and whiskers
and baggy umbrella. Patsy Moriarty (Patrici really. Did you ever hear
such a name? Mrs. Lippett couldn't have done better) who is tall and
thin was Julia's wife in a absurd green bonnet over one ear. Waves of
laughter followed them the whole length of the course. Julia played
the part extremely well. I never dreamed that a Pendleton could
display so much comedy spirit--begging Master Jervie's pardon; I don't
consider him a true Pendleton though, any more than I consider you a
true Trustee.
Sallie and I weren't in the parade because we were entered for the
events. And what do you think? We both won! At least in something.
We tried for the running broad jump and lost; but Sallie won the
pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches) and I won the fifty-yard sprint
(eight seconds).
I was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the whole
class waving balloons and cheering and yelling:
What's the matter with Judy Abbott?
She's all right.
Who's all right?
Judy Ab-bott!
That, Daddy, is true fame. Then trotting back to the dressing tent and
being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. You see
we're very professional. It's a fine thing to win an event for your
class, because the class that wins the most gets the athletic cup for
the year. The Seniors won it this year, with seven events to their
credit. The athletic association gave a dinner in the gymnasium to all
of the winners. We had fried soft-shell crabs, and chocolate ice-cream
moulded in the shape of basket balls.
I sat up half of last night reading Jane Eyre. Are you old enough,
Daddy, to remember sixty years ago? And, if so, did people talk that
way?
The haughty Lady Blanche says to the footman, 'Stop your chattering,
knave, and do my bidding.' Mr. Rochester talks about the metal welkin
when he means the sky; and as for the mad woman who laughs like a hyena
and sets fire to bed curtains and tears up wedding veils and
BITES--it's melodrama of the purest, but just the same, you read and
read and read. I can't see how any girl could have written such a
book, especially any girl who was brought up in a churchyard. There's
something about those Brontes that fascinates me. Their books, their
lives, their spirit. Where did they get it? When I was reading about
little Jane's troubles in the charity school, I got so angry that I had
to go out and take a walk. I understood exactly how she felt. Having
known Mrs. Lippett, I could see Mr. Brocklehurst.
Don't be outraged, Daddy. I am not intimating that the John Grier Home
was like the Lowood Institute. We had plenty to eat and plenty to
wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar. But
there was one deadly likeness. Our lives were absolutely monotonous
and uneventful. Nothing nice ever happened, except ice-cream on
Sundays, and even that was regular. In all the eighteen years I was
there I only had one adventure--when the woodshed burned. We had to
get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in case the house
should catch. But it didn't catch and we went back to bed.
Everybody likes a few surprises; it's a perfectly natural human
craving. But I never had one until Mrs. Lippett called me to the
office to tell me that Mr. John Smith was going to send me to college.
And then she broke the news so gradually that it just barely shocked me.
You know, Daddy, I think that the most necessary quality for any person
to have is imagination. It makes people able to put themselves in
other people's places. It makes them kind and sympathetic and
understanding. It ought to be cultivated in children. But the John
Grier Home instantly stamped out the slightest flicker that appeared.
Duty was the one quality that was encouraged. I don't think children
ought to know the meaning of the word; it's odious, detestable. They
ought to do everything from love.
Wait until you see the orphan asylum that I am going to be the head of!
It's my favourite play at night before I go to sleep. I plan it out to
the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and study and amusements and
punishments; for even my superior orphans are sometimes bad.
But anyway, they are going to be happy. I think that every one, no
matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have a
happy childhood to look back upon. And if I ever have any children of
my own, no matter how unhappy I may be, I am not going to let them have
any cares until they grow up.
(There goes the chapel bell--I'll finish this letter sometime).