Dear Mr. Trustee,
Tomorrow is the first Wednesday in the month--a weary day for the John
Grier Home. How relieved they'll be when five o'clock comes and you
pat them on the head and take yourselves off! Did you (individually)
ever pat me on the head, Daddy? I don't believe so--my memory seems to
be concerned only with fat Trustees.
Give the Home my love, please--my TRULY love. I have quite a feeling
of tenderness for it as I look back through a haze of four years. When
I first came to college I felt quite resentful because I'd been robbed
of the normal kind of childhood that the other girls had had; but now,
I don't feel that way in the least. I regard it as a very unusual
adventure. It gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand
aside and look at life. Emerging full grown, I get a perspective on
the world, that other people who have been brought up in the thick of
things entirely lack.
I know lots of girls (Julia, for instance) who never know that they are
happy. They are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are
deadened to it; but as for me--I am perfectly sure every moment of my
life that I am happy. And I'm going to keep on being, no matter what
unpleasant things turn up. I'm going to regard them (even toothaches)
as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like.
'Whatever sky's above me, I've a heart for any fate.'
However, Daddy, don't take this new affection for the J.G.H. too
literally. If I have five children, like Rousseau, I shan't leave them
on the steps of a foundling asylum in order to insure their being
brought up simply.
Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Lippett (that, I think, is truthful;
love would be a little strong) and don't forget to tell her what a
beautiful nature I've developed.
Affectionately,
Judy
LOCK WILLOW,
4th April
Dear Daddy,
Do you observe the postmark? Sallie and I are embellishing Lock Willow
with our presence during the Easter Vacation. We decided that the best
thing we could do with our ten days was to come where it is quiet. Our
nerves had got to the point where they wouldn't stand another meal in
Fergussen. Dining in a room with four hundred girls is an ordeal when
you are tired. There is so much noise that you can't hear the girls
across the table speak unless they make their hands into a megaphone
and shout. That is the truth.
We are tramping over the hills and reading and writing, and having a
nice, restful time. We climbed to the top of 'Sky Hill' this morning
where Master Jervie and I once cooked supper--it doesn't seem possible
that it was nearly two years ago. I could still see the place where
the smoke of our fire blackened the rock. It is funny how certain
places get connected with certain people, and you never go back without
thinking of them. I was quite lonely without him--for two minutes.
What do you think is my latest activity, Daddy? You will begin to
believe that I am incorrigible--I am writing a book. I started it
three weeks ago and am eating it up in chunks. I've caught the secret.
Master Jervie and that editor man were right; you are most convincing
when you write about the things you know. And this time it is about
something that I do know--exhaustively. Guess where it's laid? In the
John Grier Home! And it's good, Daddy, I actually believe it is--just
about the tiny little things that happened every day. I'm a realist
now. I've abandoned romanticism; I shall go back to it later though,
when my own adventurous future begins.
This new book is going to get itself finished--and published! You see
if it doesn't. If you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying,
you do get it in the end. I've been trying for four years to get a
letter from you--and I haven't given up hope yet.
Goodbye, Daddy dear,
(I like to call you Daddy dear; it's so alliterative.)
Affectionately,
Judy
PS. I forgot to tell you the farm news, but it's very distressing.
Skip this postscript if you don't want your sensibilities all wrought
up.
Poor old Grove is dead. He got so that he couldn't chew and they had
to shoot him.
Nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week.
One of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out
from Bonnyrigg Four Corners. Amasai stayed up all night to give her
linseed oil and whisky. But we have an awful suspicion that the poor
sick cow got nothing but linseed oil.
Sentimental Tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are
afraid he has been caught in a trap.
There are lots of troubles in the world!