It seems to me that the writing habit is kinder like poison oak; it's
sure to break out on you in the spring, and you can never get it
entirely out of your system.
I've tried my best to keep from writing, and when you have done your
best and failed, why I don't believe even Robert Bruce's spider could
have done any more.
I promised mother I would stop writing in my diary and I have--for
such a long time that every one of the hems in my dresses has had to
be let out since I wrote last. But now I just must break my promise,
and I reckon if you are going to break a promise at all you might as
well break it all to pieces. So I'll just dive in and tell all that
happened since I wrote last.
You remember that fluffy-skirted widow that I told you about being
down here, my diary, and I sharpened seventeen pencils for--a long
time ago? Well, she said that _she_ believed every minute of this life
was made for enjoyment. She told it to a young man that told it to
father that told it to mother and I happened to hear. She said you
ought to do the things you enjoy most, as long as they didn't bother
anybody else, and if you did things you had to repent of afterward,
why, even then, you ought to cut out your sackcloth by a becoming
pattern!
Everybody in town heard that she said it, and Brother Sheffield said
it was a _heathenish_ thing to say! He preached his Jezebel sermon the
very next Sunday, although it wasn't due until nearer Easter bonnet
time. Maybe he wasn't to blame so much, though, for the presiding
elder was due that Sunday and found out at the last minute he couldn't
get there in time for the morning service; so Brother Sheffield had to
preach the first sermon he could get his hands on, I reckon. The
presiding elder (I _wonder_ if you ought to begin him with a capital
letter? I never wrote "presiding elder" before in my life and maybe
never will again, so it's no use getting up to go and look for it in
the dictionary) well, he got in late that afternoon and spent the
night at our house where he kept the supper table in a roar telling
funny tales about the ignorance and tacky ways of the country brethren
he had stayed with the night before. He was an awfully popular
presiding elder with his members.
But what I started out to say when I commenced writing to-night was
that surely mother wouldn't be so cruel as not to want my
grandchildren to know a few little last things about all the friends
I've written of in here, and also a few little last things about me. I
always like to read a book that winds up that way. For instance, you
will enjoy hearing that Miss Irene is spending every minute of her
time just about now running baby blue ribbon in her underclothes. And
Miss Merle has long ago quit running it in hers!
Miss Irene has stopped being a "pseudo-Poe in petticoats," as father
one time called her, but not to her face. Doctor Bynum told her that
he thought one bright magazine story that would make a "T.B." patient
sit up in bed and laugh was worth all the graveyard gloom that Poe
ever wrote.
And before I get clear away from the subject of Miss Merle I must tell
you that Mr. St. John is still the most bashful, though married, man I
ever heard of. I never shall forget the time he wouldn't let us see
his undershirt--when it was hanging in an up-stairs window, too. But
Jean wrote me not long ago that when the census man came around to see
how many folks lived there and how many times each one had been
married and if they kept a cow, etc., Mr. St. John happened to be the
one to go to the door and answer the man's questions. Now, it does
seem that if he and Miss Merle have been married long enough for her
to leave off the ribbon he might leave off the blushes; but they were
all standing around looking at him, which of course made it worse. So
when the census man said, "How many children is your wife the mother
of?" instead of speaking out boldly, "None!" Jean said his face turned
every color in the curriculum and he stammered, "Not any--that _I_
know of!" And then he looked around at them as if to see whether or
not _they_ knew of any lying around loose about the house.
I haven't seen Jean since she was down here, but we write eighteen
pages a week. I didn't get to go on my visit to her house as I
expected, for we went to Florida instead. We all went, that is, us
three, and Waterloo and his family besides Ann Lisbeth and Doctor
Gordon.
Doctor Gordon was the one that started it. He caught pneumonia one
dreary day in the early spring when he was already sick in bed, but
got up and went out to the hospital to operate for appendicitis. Ann
Lisbeth almost went into catalepsy, trying to keep him from going,
but it was a very expensive appendix, he said, so he got up and went
out and bottled it. The changing from his warm room to the cold air
gave him pneumonia, although the doctors say it is caused by a germ.
I'll never believe this, not even if I marry one!
Well, he finally got over his spell by "lysis" instead of "crisis,"
but I hope this will never come to Mammy Lou's ears, or she will
fairly long for more twins in the Dovie family.
When Doctor Gordon got able to be out a little all the other doctors
told him that he had better go to a warm climate for a month or two,
for it was still so cold, so he and Ann Lisbeth persuaded Rufe and
Cousin Eunice to go too, and they all wrote for us to hurry up and get
ready so we could go with them.
Mother said she'd just _love_ to go, but she didn't see how we
possibly could, for none of us had any clothes and she had always
heard that Florida was fairly alive with rich Yankees! Mammy Lou
spoke up then and said, well, she was sure Ann looked exactly like a
rich Yankee, and she was the only one that folks was going to look at
anyhow! So mother took heart and we went.
Father had to have a new overcoat, for the weather has been colder
this spring than ever the oldest inhabitant can tell about, and as
they wrote us to get ready in such a hurry, on account of poor Doctor
Gordon's cough, he didn't have time to have one made at his regular
place, so he bought one ready-made, a light tan one, the poor dear!
And it had two long "heimer" names from Chicago printed on the label
at the collar.
We got ready in such a rush that none of us had time to rip this label
out, though I lived to regret it many a time! It was too hot to wear
it when we got down there, but father had got scared up about catching
pneumonia, so he insisted on carrying it around on his arm all the
time, inside out; and there was not one millionaire, not one tennis
champion, nor famous authoress we met, but what I saw the eyes of
fixed, at one time or another, on those "heimer" names!
That's one delightful thing about Florida--you get to see so many
people that you never would see at home. And everybody mixes like
candidates! For instance, you may have a mosquito on you one minute
that you will see on a Russian anarchist the next. The mosquitoes down
there are so big that you can easily recognize their features. And apt
as not you'll go in bathing every day with a person _so famous_ when
he's at home that he is never invited to dine with anybody that hasn't
got monogram china and _pâté de foie gras_.
I've noticed that the things people tell about after they come home
from a trip depend a good deal on the disposition they carry with them
on it. It's the way with Florida. If you're an optimist you'll come
back and tell about the palms, roses and sunsets. If you're a
pessimist you'll mention snakes, hotel bills and buzzards. The honest
truth is there's quite enough of them all to go around.
You're impressed with the country from the first morning that you get
into it and raise up (half way) in your berth and look out the car
window. At first there seems to be a mighty lot of just flat scenery,
with tall trees that have all their branches at the tiptop. These
trees remind you of pictures of the Holy Land that you used to see in
the big Bible your mother and father would give you on Sunday
afternoons to keep you quiet while they could take a nap.
You begin to think that what you're seeing is too beautiful to be
true, though, from the first minute you look out on a blue bay that is
deep green in places, and has purple streaks in it. But when you row
over to an island all covered with palms and find a strip of beach
that has bushels and bushels of tiny shells, that the mermaids used to
make necklaces out of--why, nothing on earth but your _feet_ hurting
so bad makes you believe it is not a dream!
Florida has all the things in it that you see when you shut your eyes
and smell a jasmine flower!
The climate is fine for the lungs, but very bad on the alimenary canal
and curling-iron hair!
We stopped at all the points of interest as we went on down. A point
of interest is a place that the post-cards tell lies about. Still I do
think Florida cards come nearer telling the truth than those of most
places, for the country is very nearly as many colors as they make it
out to be.
Cousin Eunice said she thought sending post-cards was the _one_
melancholy pleasure of traveling, and so I bought a quarter's worth at
every place.
Traveling _is_ a melancholy pleasure when you have a baby that you
won't let drink a drop of water unless it has had the germs all stewed
in it. Waterloo is getting to be such a big boy now, too; but he
still talks like a telegram--just the most important words of what he
wants to say, with all the others left out. He's crazy about
foot-ball, chewing-gum and billy-goats. And you just ought to hear him
chew gum!
Among the points of interest we saw was the oldest house in America.
It is a _very_ interesting place. It has a marble bust of Lord Byron
in it!
I don't remember another thing, I believe, except that! Oh yes, I do,
too! I do remember a startling thing I heard about a very old bed in
that house. I heard the guide telling that this was the bed that
William the Conqueror and Maria Theresa slept on! I hate to hear folks
get their history mixed, so I had just opened my mouth to say "Why,
they were not _married_," when I spied the bust of his lordship in the
next room. After that I didn't care how many tales they made up on
William and Maria!
Poor little Waterloo didn't much fancy the oldest house, but when we
drove up to "The Fountain of Youth," and he saw the clear, sparkling
"drink" that helped Ponce get rid of his double chin and crow's-feet
he commenced to howl for some. Doctor Gordon had told us before we got
there that we mustn't dare drink any of it unless there was a signed
certificate that there wasn't any "coli" in it.
We looked all around, but as we didn't see any sign, Rufe thought
maybe he'd better not give him any. There didn't _look_ to be any
"coli," either, but still Rufe didn't like the idea of his drinking
it. When Waterloo saw that they didn't intend to give him any he
commenced to kick and squall and get so red in the face with his
dancing up and down that Rufe finally screamed back to the carriage
that Doctor Gordon was in and asked him if he thought one little glass
would hurt Waterloo. Cousin Eunice screamed back at the same time and
said for Doctor Gordon to give his _honest_ opinion, for she wouldn't
have the little angel catch anything so far away from home for the
whole of the East coast.
Doctor Gordon, who had been made nervous by his spell, screamed back
to them for Heaven's sake let the little imp drink till he
_busted_--only he hoped it wouldn't make him stay as _young_ as he was
then!
So Rufe motioned for the lady that hands you the water, with a
North-of-the-Mason-and-Dixon accent, to hush talking about her friend,
Ponce de Leon, long enough to give the glass an extra scrubbing and
hand Waterloo some water, which she did. This didn't do as much good,
though, as we had hoped for. Rufe was in such a hurry to get away from
"The Fountain of Youth" that his hand trembled some and he spilt the
first glassful down Waterloo's little front. This made the darling so
mad, and I don't blame him either, that he slapped the second glassful
out of Rufe's hand. He washed Teddy Bear's face with the third, and
threw the fourth in Cousin Eunice's white linen lap, when she tried to
soothe him.
Rufe ran his hand down into his pocket before he told the driver to
drive on, for he knew that milk was fifteen cents a quart in Florida,
and water was almost priceless. The lady told him that she would have
to collect fifty cents for the water that Waterloo had wasted, and
that washing out the glass was twenty-five cents extra.
Rufe handed her a twenty-dollar bill, but she couldn't change it. So
he called back to Doctor Gordon to ask him if he could.
"_Change!_" said Doctor Gordon, looking surprised that Rufe should
have asked him such an embarrassing question. "Why, I haven't a
_thing_ left but my watch-fob and thermometer-case and wouldn't have
had them if I hadn't worn them in a chamois bag around my neck!"
So Rufe told the lady he would mail her a check for the amount with
interest.
Later on we saw ostrich farms and the biggest cigar factory in the
world. I _think_ they said it was the biggest. Anyway, if there's a
bigger one I don't care about smelling it!
It's long past time for the lights to go out, mine especially, for
they never want me to sit up until I get really interested in
anything; but I believe I will throw a black sateen petticoat up over
the transom, which I have found out you can do very well if you have
two nails up there to hang it on, and tell one more little thing that
happened on that trip. I say "little thing," but it seemed a monstrous
big thing to me at the time.
When we were about half-way through Georgia on our way home, some of
us commenced having chills. Doctor Gordon had his first, but he didn't
say anything about it to Ann Lisbeth until he got to shaking so that
she saw something was the matter. Then mother and Cousin Eunice had
one apiece. Doctor Gordon said it wasn't anything to be alarmed about,
for it was just a little malaria cropping out, but I felt so sorry
for them that I told Ann Lisbeth if she would go with me I would go up
to the baggage car and see if we could get out some heavy underclothes
from our trunk.
We had to stagger through a long string of sleepers, for we were in
the backest one, but we were rewarded when we finally did get to the
baggage car. There was a merry-eyed express messenger in there who
said he would be _glad_ to pull and haul those fifteen or twenty
trunks that were on top of ours! May the gods reward him, for it was
an awful job! And so we got out enough clothes for our cold and
destitute families.
Now, you may have noticed before this, my diary, that I am a forgetful
person. I can remember the last words of Charles II, or anything like
that, but I forget what I did yesterday.
I had entirely forgotten about stuffing oranges in with all our
clothes when I helped mother pack our trunks! And we were in such a
hurry in the express car that we didn't stop to shake the clothes out
as we fished them up from the trays; it wouldn't have been polite to,
anyway, in front of that good-looking express messenger, and we didn't
have room enough. So we had just lifted things out as we came to them
and eased them up in our arms as we started on back on our walk to our
sleeper.
But the oranges hadn't forgotten about being there! I reckon they
wanted to see what all that disturbance was about for, I cross my
heart, _just_ as I got opposite the swellest-looking man in that whole
string of sleepers, a man with silk socks and golf sticks, a long
sleeve of mother's knit corset-cover dropped down against the seat in
front of him and four oranges rolled out! They rolled slowly, one by
one, and dropped to the floor with muffled thuds. Then they rolled
some more and didn't stop until they reached his feet.
That's how I knew he had on silk socks.