Flying Colours

Chapter 3

15th September
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Behold me—a Sophomore! I reached here last Friday, feeling very miserable for leaving Lock Willow, but delighted to see the campus once more. It is a cheerful sensation to come back to a place which is more or less my home. In fact, I am beginning to feel at home in the world—as if I was always a part of it and had not just crept in on sufferance.

I don’t suppose you understand in the least what I am trying to say. A person important enough to be a Trustee cannot value the emotions of a person who has been brought up in an orphanage.

And now, Daddy, listen to this. Whom do you think I am sharing my room with? Sallie McBride and Julia Rutledge Pendleton. Yes, it is true. We have a study and three little bedrooms.

Last spring Sallie and I agreed that we should stay in a room together and Julia decided to stay with Sallie—It is strange because they are not a bit alike; but the Pendletons are naturally middle-of-the-road and inimical (fine word!) to variation. Anyway, here we are. Just imagine, Jerusha Abbott, a foundling of the John Grier Home, sharing a room with a Pendleton. This is a democratic country.

Great News! Sallie is running for class president, and unless all odds are in her favour, she is going to be elected. There is an atmosphere of conspiracy everywhere, you should see what politicians we are! Oh, I tell you, Daddy, when we women get our rights, you men will have to look alive in order to keep yours. Election comes next Saturday, and we’re going to have a torchlight procession in the evening, no matter who wins.

I am beginning chemistry, a most unusual study. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Molecules and Atoms are the material employed, but I suppose I’ll be able to talk about them more positively next month.

I am also taking argumentation and logic, history of the whole world, plays of William Shakespeare and the wonderful language French.

If this keeps up many years longer, I shall become quite intelligent.

I should rather have elected economics than French, but I didn’t dare, because I was afraid that unless I re-elected French, the Professor would not let me pass—as it was, I just managed to squeeze through the June examination. But I will say that my high-school preparation was not very adequate.

Daddy, there’s one girl in my class who babbles a lot in French as fast as she does in English. In her childhood, she went abroad with her parents, and studied for three years in a convent school. You can imagine how bright she is compared with the rest of us—irregular verbs are mere playthings. I wish my parents had tossed me into a French convent when I was little rather than a foundling asylum. Oh no, I don’t either! Because then maybe I should never have known you. I’d rather know you than French.

Goodbye, Daddy. I must call on Harriet Martin now, and while discussing the chemical situation of molecules, we might casually drop a few thoughts on the subject of our next president.

Yours in politics,
J. Abbott

17th October

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Supposing the swimming tank in the gymnasium were filled full of lemon jelly, could a person trying to swim manage to keep on top or would he sink?

We were having lemon jelly for dessert when the question came up. We discussed it heatedly for half an hour and it’s still unsettled. Sallie thinks that she could swim in it, but I am perfectly sure that the best swimmer in the world would sink. Wouldn’t it be funny to be drowned in lemon jelly?

Did I ever tell you about the election? It happened three weeks ago, but so fast do we live, that three weeks is ancient history. Sallie was elected, and we had a torchlight parade with transparencies saying, ‘McBride for Ever,’ and a band consisting of fourteen pieces (three mouth organs and eleven combs).

We’re very important persons now in ‘258.’ Julia and I come in for a great deal of reflected glory. It’s quite a social strain to be living in the same house with a president.
Yours,
Giving compliments,
Judy

12th November
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Yesterday, I was in the best of my frame of mind as we beat the Freshmen at basket ball. Of course we’re happy—but oh, if we could only beat the juniors! I’d be willing to be black and blue all over and stay in bed a week in a witch-hazel compress.

I have been summoned by Sallie to spend the Christmas vacation with her. She lives in Worcester, Massachusetts. It is so nice of her and I shall love to go. I’ve never been in a private family in my life, which I desired the most, except at Lock Willow, and the Semples were grown-up and old and don’t count. But the McBrides have a houseful of children (anyway two or three) and a mother and father and grandmother, and an Angora cat. It’s an ideally integrated family! Packing your trunk and going away is more fun than staying behind. I am terribly thrilled at the thought.

Seventh hour—I have to rush for rehearsal. I’m to be in the Thanksgiving theatricals. A prince in a tower with a velvet tunic and yellow curls. Isn’t that a lark?

Yours,
J. A.

‘STONE GATE’,
WORCESTER, MASS.,
31st December
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I wanted to express gratitude for your Christmas cheque earlier, but life in the McBride house is so engrossing that I hardly get time to spend two consecutive minutes at a desk.

Well, I bought a new gown—one that I didn’t need, but just wanted. My Christmas present this year is from Daddy-Long-Legs; my family just sent love.

I’ve been having a delightful time and this is the most adorable vacation visiting Sallie. She puts up in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street—exactly the kind of house that I saw in my imagination when I was in the John Grier Home, and wonder how it looked from inside. I never expected to see with my own eyes—but here I am! The feeling is so comfortable and soothing and homelike; I walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings.

It is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fire places for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has served the family for thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. Just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again.

And the family is so kind that I never felt out of place. I never dreamed they could be so polite. In Sallie’s family, there are her father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet and is scolded for that, and a big, handsome brother named Jimmie, who is a junior at Princeton.

During our meals at the table—everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don’t have to say grace beforehand. We always have a wonderful time. It’s a relief not having to show gratitude to somebody for every piece you eat. (I dare say I’m blasphemous; but you’d be, too, if you’d offered as much obligatory thanks as I have.)

Such a lot of things we’ve done—I can’t begin to tell you about them. Mr. McBride owns a factory and on Christmas Eve he had a tree for the employees’ children. It was in the long packing-room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. Jimmie McBride was dressed as Santa Claus and Sallie and I helped him distribute the presents.

Dear me, Daddy, but it was a funny sensation! I felt as benevolent as a Trustee of the John Grier home. I kissed one sweet, sticky little boy—but I don’t think I patted any of them on the head!

And the amazing part is that two days after Christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for ME.

For the very first time I attended a real true ball—college doesn’t count where we dance with girls. I had a new white evening gown (your Christmas present—many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. The fact that Mrs. Lippett couldn’t see me leading the cotillion with Jimmie McBride was the only downside to my great, absolute, complete happiness. Do tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the J. G. H.

Yours ever,
Judy Abbott
PS. Would you be terribly displeased, Daddy, if I didn’t turn out to be a Great Author after all, but just a Plain Girl?
6.30, Saturday

Dear Daddy,
We started to walk to town today, but mercy! How it poured. I like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain.
We got a call from Julia’s desirable uncle this afternoon—he brought a five-pound box of chocolates. There are advantages, you see, about rooming with Julia.

Mercy! How it keeps Pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel tonight.
Our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. We had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. It’s hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. Julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk’s certificate attached. (Don’t I know a lot of law?).

Anyhow, I told him about my vacation at Lock Willow last summer, and we had a striking gossipy time about the Semples, and the horses and cows and chickens. All the horses that he used to know are dead, except Grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit. I called him ‘Master Jervie’ to his face, but he didn’t appear to be offended. Julia says she has never seen him so sociable; he’s generally pretty unfriendly. But Julia hasn’t a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal.

Isn’t it remarkable that we’re reading Marie Bashkirtseff’s journal? Take note to this: ‘Last night I was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.’ It makes me almost hope I’m not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about—and extremely harsh to the furniture.

Mercy! How it keeps Pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel tonight.
Yours ever,
Judy

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy?

Maybe I am she! If we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn’t it?

It’s really awfully queer not to know what one is—sort of exciting and romantic. There are such a lot of possibilities. Maybe I’m not American; lots of people aren’t. I may be straight descended from the ancient Romans, or I may be a Viking’s daughter, or I may be the child of a Russian exile and belong by rights in a Siberian prison, or maybe I’m a Gipsy—I think perhaps I am. I have a very wandering spirit, though I haven’t as yet had much chance to develop it.

Do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time I ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? It’s down in the books free for any Trustee to read. But really, Daddy, what could you expect? When you put a hungry little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn’t you expect to find her a bit crumby? And then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes and tell all the other children that it’s because she’s a thief, wouldn’t you expect her to run away?

I only ran four miles. They caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week I was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the back yard while the other children were out at recess.

Oh, dear! There’s the chapel bell, and after chapel I have a committee meeting. I’m sorry because I meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time.
Yours ever,
Judy

24th March, maybe the 25th

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I don’t believe I can be going to Heaven—I am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn’t be fair to get them hereafter too. Listen to what has happened.

Jerusha Abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty five dollar prize) that is conducted by the Monthly every year. And she’s a Sophomore! There are mainly Seniors in the contest. I froze when I saw my name posted; I couldn’t quite believe it was true. Probably I am a future author after all. Why did Mrs. Lippett gave me such a stupid name— doesn’t it sound like an authoress?

Also I have been chosen for the spring dramatics—As You Like It out of doors. I am going to be Celia, own cousin to Rosalind.

And last of all: Julia and Sallie and I are going to New York next Friday. We are going to do some spring shopping, hang about all night and go to the theatre the next day with ‘Master Jervie.’ He invited us. Julia will stay at home with her family, and Sallie and I will stay at the Martha Washington Hotel. Isn’t it exciting? It’s my first time in a hotel and in a theatre; except once when the Catholic Church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn’t a real play, so it doesn’t add up.

And guess what we’re going to see? Hamlet. Think of that! We studied it for four weeks in Shakespeare class and I know it by heart.

I am so excited over all these prospects that I can scarcely sleep.
Goodbye, Daddy.
This is a very amusing world.
Yours ever,
Judy

7th April
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Mercy! Isn’t New York big? Worcester is nothing in front of it. I can’t believe you actually live in all that commotion? I don’t think that I shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. I can’t begin to tell you all the amazing things I’ve seen; I suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself.

The streets are pleasurable; the people are entertaining and the shops too. I never saw such attractive things as there are in the windows. It makes you want to dedicate your life to wearing clothes.

The three of us went shopping together Saturday morning. Julia went into the most stunning place I ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. A perfectly good-looking lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a warm smile. I thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats—at least Julia was. She sat down in front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all.

There is no happiness in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first considering the cost! I don’t think there is any uncertainty about it, Daddy; New York would swiftly undermine this fine enduring character which the John Grier Home so tolerantly built up.

And after we’d finished our shopping, we met Master Jervie at Sherry’s. You might have been in Sherry’s. Imagine that, then imagine the dining-room of the John Grier Home with its oil cloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can’t break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and think the way I felt!

I ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed.

And after luncheon we went to the theatre which was incredible, spectacular, and unbelievable—I dream about it almost every night.

Pardon me, but I’d rather be an actress than a writer. Wouldn’t you like me to enter a dramatic school leaving this college? And then you’ll receive a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. Only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so I’ll surely smile at the right man. It would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if I picked out the wrong one.

We returned Saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps and Negro waiters. I never heard of meals being served in trains before, and I accidentally said so.

‘Where on earth were you brought up?’ said Julia to me.
‘In a village,’ I said meekly, to Julia.

‘But didn’t you ever travel?’ she said to me.
‘Not till I came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn’t eat,’ I told her.

She’s getting somewhat involved in me, because I say such humorous things. I try hard not to, but they just pop out whenever I’m astonished—and I’m astonished most of the time. Daddy, it’s a whirling encounter, to pass eighteen years in an orphanage, and then all of a sudden be plunged into the world.

I’m slowly getting accustomed to it. I don’t feel awkward any more with the other girls, nor do I make awful mistakes as I did. Whenever anyone looked at me I used to find myself struggling. I felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams beneath.

But the ginghams are no more troublesome for me.

I forgot to tell you about our flowers. Master Jervie gave us each a big bouquet of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. It is so kind of him. Men never occupied much of my mind- judging by Trustees—but I’m altering my mentality.

Eleven pages—this is a letter! Have courage. I’m going to stop.
Yours always,
Judy

10th April
Dear Mr. Rich-Man,
Here’s your cheque for fifty dollars. I appreciate it, but I do not feel that I can keep it. I suppose my allowance is enough to manage to pay for all of the hats that I necessitate. I shouldn’t have written all that ridiculous things about the millinery shop; it’s just that I had never seen anything like it before.

Though, I wasn’t pleading! And I would never agree to any more charity than I have to.
Sincerely yours,
Jerusha Abbott

11th April
Dearest Daddy,
Please pardon me for the terrible letter I wrote you yesterday. I was apologetic after I posted it, and tried to get it back, but that horrid mail clerk wouldn’t give it back to me.

It’s the middle of the night now; I’ve been up for hours thinking what a Worm I am—what a Thousand-legged Worm—and that’s the worst I can say! I’ve closed the door very softly into the study so as not to wake Julia and Sallie, and am sitting up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book.

I just wanted you to know that I am sorry; I was so rude about your cheque. I know you meant it humanely, but you’re an old dear to take so much difficulty for such a daft object as a hat. I should have returned it very much more courteously.

However, I cannot keep it. I am different from the other girls. They can take things naturally from people. They have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles in their family; but I have no such relatives. It makes me feel good to pretend that you belong to me, but certainly I know you don’t. I’m standing alone, really— fighting the world with my back to the wall —and I get sort of gaspy when I think about it. Daddy, I can’t accept any more money than decided, because some day or the other, I will pay it back, and even as great an author as I aim to be, won’t be able to face an absolutely remarkable debt.

I’d love pretty hats and things, but I mustn’t mortgage the future to pay for them.

I hope you’ll excuse me, for being so ill-mannered. I have an awful tendency of writing impulsively when I first think things, and then posting the letter beyond recall. But if I sometimes seem tactless and unappreciative, I never mean it. In my heart I will always thank you for the life and liberty and fortune that you have given me. My childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now I am so happy every moment of the day that I can’t believe its true. I feel like a made-up heroine in a story-book.

It’s a quarter past two. I’m going to tread softly out to post this off now. You won’t have a very long time to think badly of me because you’ll receive it in the next mail after the other.

Good night, Daddy,
I love you always,
Judy

4th May
Mr. Daddy-Long-Legs Smith,
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. Julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and whiskers and baggy umbrella. Julia played the part extremely well. I never dreamed that a Pendleton could display so much comedy spirit—begging Master Jervie’ pardon. 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).

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.

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.

Goodbye,
Mr. nice Man,
Judy

2nd June
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Can you presume the nice thing that has happened, Daddy?
I have been invited by the McBrides to spend the summer at their camp in the Adirondacks! I guess they are a member of a sort of club on a lovely little lake in the heart of the woods. The other members have houses made of logs dotted about among the trees, and they go canoeing on the lake, take long walks through tracks to other camps, and even have dances once a week in the club house— we shall have ample of men to dance with since Jimmie McBride is going to have a college mate visiting him part of the summer.

It was so kind of Mrs. McBride to ask me. It seems that she liked me when I was there for Christmas.

Kindly forgive me for being so precise. It isn’t an actual letter; I just wanted to let you know that I’m disposed of for the summer.
Yours,
In a very contented frame of mind,
Judy

5th June
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I just received your secretary’s note on which it was written that Mr. Smith prefers that I shall not agree to Mrs. McBride’s invitation; instead revisit Lock Willow just like last summer.
Why, why, why, Daddy?
You don’t understand about it. Mrs. McBride does want me, really and truly. I’m not the least bit of mess in the house rather I’m a help. They don’t take up many servants, and Sallie and I can do lots of useful things. It’s a bright option for me to learn housekeeping. Every woman ought to understand it, and I only know asylum-keeping.

There aren’t any girls our age at the camp, and Mrs. McBride wants me for a companion for Sallie. We are planning to read all of the books for the next year’s English and sociology. The Professor said it would be a great help if we would get our comprehension completed in the summer; and it is easier to memorize if we read in somebody’s company and talk it over.

One can learn a lot while living in the same house with Sallie’s mother. She’s the most exciting, enjoyable, friendly, attractive woman in the world; she knows the whole lot. You know how many summers I’ve spent with Mrs. Lippett and no doubt I’ll value the contrast. You needn’t be anxious that I’ll be crowding them, for their house is made of rubber. When they have a lot of company, they just sprinkle tents about in the woods and turn the boys outside. It will be a hale and hearty summer exercising out of doors every minute. I am going to learn lots of new and exciting things for Jimmie McBride is going to teach me how to ride horseback and paddle a canoe and how to shoot. It’s the kind of nice, cheerful, relaxed time every girl deserves at least once in her life. Yes I’ll do just as you say, but please, please let me go, Daddy. I’ve never wanted anything so much.

This isn’t Jerusha Abbott, the future great author, writing to you. It’s just Judy—a girl.

9th June
Mr. John Smith,
SIR: Yours of the 7th inst. at hand. According to the orders received by your secretary, I depart on next Friday to spend the summer at Lock Willow Farm.
I hope always to remain,
(Miss) Jerusha Abbott

LOCK WILLOW FARM
3rd August
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
It has been close to two months since I wrote, which is very impolite on my part, I know, but I haven’t cherished you much this summer—you see I’m being honest!

You have no idea how much upset I was for giving up the McBrides’ camp. Of course I know that you’re my guardian, and that I have to regard your wishes in all matters, but I couldn’t see any reason. It was surely the best thing that could have happened to me. If I were you, I should have said, ‘Bless you my child, run along and have a good time; see lots of new people and learn lots of new things; live out of doors, and get strong and well and rested for a year of hard work.’

But no! What I got was a rude line from your secretary instructing me to Lock Willow.

My sentiments are hurt through the insensitivity of your instruction. It seems as though, if you felt the least possible bit for me the way I feel for you, you’d sometimes send me a note that you’d written with your own hand, instead of those rotten typewritten secretary’s comments. If there were the smallest amount hint that you cared, I’d do anything on earth to gratify you.

According to the terms set I was to write lovely, elongated, detailed letters without ever expecting any reply in return. You’re doing best on your side of the bargain—I’m being educated—and I believe you’re thinking I’m not doing so!

But, Daddy, it is a hard deal. It is, really. I’m so horrifically abandoned. I am concerned only for you, but you are so vague. You’re just a virtual man that I’ve made up in my mind—and maybe the real you isn’t a bit like my imaginary you. But I did once received your message, when I was sick in the infirmary, and now and then I take out your card and read it over, whenever I am feeling quite lost.

I don’t think I am telling you at all what I started to say, which was this:

Even though my emotions are still hurt, because having chosen and moved about by a random, authoritative, irrational, supreme, invisible Providence is a bit embarrassing, still, a man as kind and big-hearted and considerate as you have been to me, I suppose has a right to be a random, authoritative, irrational, invisible Providence, and so—I’ll excuse you and be jovial again. But I envy Sallie for having excellent time in the camp.

Anyhow—we will draw a veil over that and have a fresh start.

I’ve been writing a real lot this summer; four short stories finished and sent to four different magazines. So you see I’m trying to be an author. I have a workroom fixed in a corner of the attic where Master Jervie used to have his rainy-day playroom. It’s in a cool, breezy corner with two dormer windows, and shaded by a maple tree with a family of red squirrels living in a hole.

I’ll soon write a nicer letter telling you all the farm news.
We need rain.

Yours as ever,
Judy

Good morning! I have some news for you. Guess who’s coming to Lock Willow? Mr. Pendleton sent a letter to Mrs. Semple. He got exhausted while motoring through the Berkshires, and wishes to loosen up on a lovely quiet farm—she should keep a room prepared for him for he might come up at her front doorstep any hour of the day. Perhaps he’ll stay for a week, or two, or maybe three; it depends on him, how comforting he feels when he gets here.

We are in such a wave mode! The complete house is being cleaned, all the curtains washed and the furniture dusted. I drove to the Corners this morning to get some new oilcloth for the entry and two cans of brown floor paint for the hall and back stairs. A lady is engaged to come tomorrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet). Do not think from this description of the deeds that the house wasn’t already spick and span. I swear it was! Whatever Mrs. Semple’s limitations, she is a housekeeper.

Daddy, it’s just like being a man. There is not even a slightest hint from his side as to whether he will arrive on the doorway, today, or two weeks from today. I guess he should come as early as possible for we shall be living in an eternal breathlessness, plus the cleaning might have to be done all over again.

There’s Amasai waiting below with the buckboard and Grover. I drive alone—but if you could see old Grove, you wouldn’t be worried as to my safety.
With my hand on my heart—farewell.
Judy
PS. Isn’t that a nice ending? I got it out of Stevenson’s letters.

25th August
Well, Daddy, Master Jervie has finally arrived. We’re having a great time! At least I am, and I believe he too is enjoying. It has been ten days since he is here and there are no signs of his departure. It is outrageous the way Mrs. Semple pampers that man. If she indulged him as much when he was a baby, I don’t know how he ever turned out so well.

I like having meals with him, sometimes we sit at a small table on the front porch, sometimes under the trees, or—when it rains or is cold—in the best parlour. He just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and Carrie trots after him with the table. Then if it has been an awful nuisance, and she has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar under the sugar bowl.

Though you would never expect to see him in a casual manner, he is an extremely comfortable sort of man. At first glimpse he might appear to be an exact Pendleton, but trust me, he isn’t in the slightest. He is a very down-to-earth and natural and dearest person—that can be a bit witty description of a man, but it’s the truth. He’s very kind and friendly with the farmers as well. At first they were quite distrustful; but he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion that disarms them immediately. They were not at all concerned about his clothes! And I don’t mind saying that his outfit is rather startling. He wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets and white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers. Mrs. Semple, sparkles with pleasure and walks around and views him from every position possible, the moment he comes down wearing anything new, and continuously reminds him to be cautious wherever he sits down. She is so fearful that his clothes might get dirty. It bores him terribly. He’s always saying to her:

‘Run along, Lizzie, and tend to your work. You can’t boss me any longer. I’ve grown up.’

It’s very comical to think of that great big, long-legged man (he’s nearly as long-legged as you, Daddy) ever sitting in Mrs. Semple’s lap and having his face washed. Particularly funny when you see her lap! She has two laps now, and three chins. But he says that once she was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he.

We are thrilled with so many adventures! We explored the country for miles learning fishing with funny little flies made of feathers, shooting with a rifle and a revolver too, and to ride horseback—there’s an astonishing amount of life in old Grove. We fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost ran away with me.

Wednesday
We mounted Sky Hill Monday afternoon. That’s a mountain near here; not a horribly far above the ground mountain, perhaps—no snow on the summit—but climbing it is not that easy as you get pretty gasping when you reach the top. The lower slopes are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and open moor.

The view of the sunset from the mountain top was stunning. After the sunset we built a fire and cooked our evening meal. Master Jervie did the cooking; he said he knew better than me and I bet he did, because he’s used to camping. Then we came down by moonlight, and with the help of the light of an electric bulb that he had in his pocket, we reached the wood trail where it was dark. It was such an exciting short trip! He talked about quite a lot remarkable things all the way. Isn’t it astounding how many different things he knows?

We went for a long tramp this morning and got trapped in a storm. Our clothes were drenched before we reached home but our spirits not even damp. You should have seen Mrs. Semple’s face when we dripped into her kitchen.
‘Oh, Master Jervie, Miss Judy! You are soaked through.

Dear! Dear! What shall I do? That nice new coat is perfectly ruined.’

She was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten years old, and she a distracted mother. I was afraid for a while that we weren’t going to get any jam for tea.

Sunday
I had black coffee for dinner tonight, and I was supposed to be getting some pretty good sleep, but I am not!
You know what happened this morning.

‘We have to get to church by eleven, so we must leave here at a quarter past ten’, said Mrs. Semple to Mr. Pendleton, with a very determined accent.

‘Very well, Lizzie,’ said Master Jervie, ‘you have the buggy ready, and if I’m not dressed, just go on without waiting.’
‘We’ll wait,’ said she.

‘As you please,’ said he, ‘only don’t keep the horses standing too long.’

Then while Mrs. Semple was getting ready, he told Carrie to pack up a lunch, and he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and afterwards we slipped out the back way and went fishing.

And according to Mrs. Semple, people who go fishing on Sundays go afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! She sometimes feels terrible and helpless for not training him better when he was a kid while she had the chance. Besides—she wished to show him off in church.

Anyway, we were done with our fishing (he trapped four little ones) and we cooked them on a camp-fire for lunch. They kept falling off our spiked sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them. We returned at four, went driving at five and had dinner at seven, and at ten I was sent to bed and here I am, writing to you.
I am getting a little sleepy, though. Good night.

Ship Ahoy, Cap’n Long-Legs!
Avast! Belay! Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. Guess what I’m reading? Our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical. Isn’t Treasure Island fun? Did you ever read it, or wasn’t it written when you were a boy? Stevenson only got thirty pounds for the serial rights—I don’t believe it pays to be a great author. Maybe I’ll be a school-teacher.

Excuse me for filling my letters so full of Stevenson; my mind is very much engaged with him at present. He comprises Lock Willow’s library.

It’s been two weeks that I am writing this letter, and I think it’s quite lengthy enough. Boy!! I do give lot of details. We’d all have such a jovial time together, if you were here. It feels good if my different friends know each other. I thought of asking Mr. Pendleton if he knew you in New York- I guess he might; you must move in about the same high-ranking social circles, and you are both engrossed in reforms and things—but I couldn’t, for I don’t know your real name.

It’s the silliest thing I ever heard of, not to know your name. Mrs. Lippett warned me that you were eccentric. I should think so!

Affectionately,
Judy

PS. On reading this over, I find that it isn’t all Stevenson. There are one or two glancing references to Master Jervie.

Dear Daddy,
He has gone, and I am missing him a lot! When something is taken away from you like familiarized people or places or ways of living, it does leave a dreadfully vacant, gnawing sort of sensation. Nowadays, I’m finding Mrs. Semple’s conversation pretty much like unseasoned food.

College reopens in two weeks and I am excited to begin the work all over again. Though I’ve wrote quite a lot this summer—six short stories and seven poems. Whatever written work I sent to the magazines came back with the most polite promptitude. It doesn’t hurt me. You see its good exercise. It was read by Master Jervie as he brought them in the post, so I couldn’t help his knowing—and he said they were awful. He even mentioned that I didn’t have the least idea of what I was talking about. (Master Jervie thinks that politeness should not get in the way of reality.) A small article that depicted just a little draft laid in college, he said wasn’t bad; and he had it typewritten, and I sent it to a magazine. It’s with them for two weeks now; maybe they’re thinking it over.

You should see the sky! There’s the queerest orange coloured light over everything. We’re going to have a rainstorm.

It started just that moment with tremendously big drops and all the shutters banging. I ran to close the windows. Just as I was resuming my pen, I remembered that I’d left a cushion and rug and hat and Matthew Arnold’s poems under a tree in the orchard, so I dashed out to get them, all quite wet. The red cover of the poems had run into the inside; Dover Beach in the future will be washed by pink waves.

A storm is awfully disturbing in the country. You are always thinking of so many things that are out of doors and getting spoiled.

Thursday
Daddy! Daddy! The postman just arrived with two letters. What do you think as happened?
1st — My story is accepted. $50.
ALORS! I’m an AUTHOR.
2nd — A letter sent by the college secretary. I have been offered a scholarship for two years that will cover board and tuition. It was founded for ‘obvious expertise in English with broad excellency in other lines.’ Before leaving the college, I applied for it, and I’ve won it! But I didn’t have an idea I’d get it, on description of my freshman dire work in maths and Latin. But it seems I’ve made it up. Daddy, I am extremely glad, because now I won’t be such a burden on to you. The periodical pocket money will be all I’ll need, and maybe I can earn that with writing or tuition or something.

I’m longing to go back and begin work.
Yours ever,
Jerusha Abbott

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