September 26th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,Back at college again and an upper classman. Our study is better than ever this year—faces the South with two huge windows—and oh! so furnished. Julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever of settling.We have new wall paper and Oriental rugs and mahogany chairs—not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. It ’s very gorgeous, but I don’t feel as though I belonged in it; I ’m nervous all the time for fear I ’ll get an ink spot in the wrong place.And, Daddy, I found your letter waiting for me—pardon—I mean your secretary’s.Will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why I should not accept that scholarship? I don’t understand your objection in the least. But anyway, it won’t do the slightest good for you to object, for I ’ve already accepted it—and I am not going to change! That sounds a little impertinent, but I don’t mean it so.I suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you ’d like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end.But look at it just a second from my point of view. I shall owe my education to you just as much as though I let you pay for the whole of it, but I won’t be quite so much indebted. I know that you don’t want me to return the money, but nevertheless, I am going to want to do it, if I possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. I was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, butnow I shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it.I hope you understand my position and won’t be cross. The allowance I shall still most gratefully accept. It requires an allowance to live up to Julia and her furniture! I wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate.This is n’t much of a letter; I meant to have written a lot—but I ’ve been hemming four window curtains and three portières (I ’m glad you can’t see the length of the stitches) and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work) and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it does n’t seem believable that Jerusha Abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between.Opening day is a joyous occasion!Good night, Daddy dear, and don’t be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. She ’s growing up into an awfully energetic little hen—with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you).Affectionately,Judy.September 30th.Dear Daddy,Are you still harping on that scholarship? I never knew a man so obstinate and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people’s-points-of-view as you.You prefer that I should not be accepting favors from strangers.Strangers!—And what are you, pray?Is there any one in the world that I know less? I should n’t recognize you if I met you on the street. Now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering, fatherly letters to your little Judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl—Then, perhaps, she would n’t have floutedyou in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be.Strangers indeed! You live in a glass house, Mr. Smith.And besides, this is n’t a favor; it ’s like a prize—I earned it by hard work. If nobody had been good enough in English, the committee would n’t have awarded the scholarship; some years they don’t. Also—But what ’s the use of arguing with a man? You belong, Mr. Smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. To bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. I scorn to coax men for what I wish. Therefore, I must be disagreeable.I refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, I won’t accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid Freshmen.That is my ultimatum!And listen—I have a further thought. Since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship, I am depriving some one else of an education, I know a way out. You can apply the money that you would have spent for me, toward educating some other little girl from the John Grier Home. Don’t you think that ’s a nice idea? Only, Daddy,educatethe new girl as much as you choose, but please don’tlikeher any better than me.I trust that your secretary won’t be hurt because I pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but I can’t help it if he is. He ’s a spoiled child, Daddy. I ’ve meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time I intend to be FIRM.Yours,With a Mind,Completely and Irrevocably andWorld-without-End Made-up.Jerusha Abbott.Judy with Julia, Sallie, Jervis and other friends“I LIKE MY DIFFERENT FRIENDS TO KNOW EACH OTHER.”November 9th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,I started down town to-day to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream and a cake of Castile soap—all very necessary; I could n’t be happy another day without them—and when I tried to pay the car fare, I found that I had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. So I had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium.It ’s a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats!Julia Pendleton has invited me to visit her for the Christmas holidays. How does that strike you, Mr. Smith? Fancy Jerusha Abbott, of the John Grier Home, sitting atthe tables of the rich. I don’t know why Julia wants me—she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. I should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to Sallie’s, but Julia asked me first, so if I go anywhere, it must be to New York instead of to Worcester. I ’m rather awed at the prospect of meeting Pendletonsen masse, and also I ’d have to get a lot of new clothes—so, Daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, I will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility.I ’m engaged at odd moments with the “Life and Letters of Thomas Huxley”—it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. Do you know what an archæopteryx is? It ’s a bird. And a stereognathus? I ’m not sure myself but I think it ’s a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. No, it is n’t either; I ’ve just looked in the book. It ’s a mesozoic mammal.This is the only picture extant of a stereognathus. He has a head like a snake and ears like a dog and feet like a cow and a tail like a lizard and wings like a swan and is covered with nice soft fur like a sweet little pussy cat.I ’ve elected economics this year—very illuminating subject. When I finish that I ’m going to take Charity and Reform; then, Mr. Trustee, I ’ll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. Don’t you think I ’d make an admirable voter if I had my rights? I was twenty-one last week. This is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as I would be.Yours always,Judy.December 7th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,Thank you for permission to visit Julia—I take it that silence means consent.Such a social whirl as we ’ve been having! The Founder’s dance came last week—this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed.I invited Jimmie McBride, and Sallie invited his room-mate at Princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp—an awfully nice man with red hair—and Julia invited a man from New York, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. He is connected with the De la Mater Chichesters. Perhaps that means something to you? It does n’t illuminate me to any extent.However—our guests came Friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. The hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. Jimmie McBride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their Adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus.At seven-thirty they came back for the President’s reception and dance. Our functions commence early! We had the men’s cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we ’d leave them in groups under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. Jimmie McBride, for example, would stand patiently under “M” until he was claimed. (At least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with “R’s” and “S’s” and all sorts of letters.) I found him a very difficult guest; he was sulkybecause he had only three dances with me. He said he was bashful about dancing with girls he did n’t know!The next morning we had a glee club concert—and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? It ’s the truth. She did. Oh, I tell you, Daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person!Anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and I think the men enjoyed it. Some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. Our two Princeton men had a beautiful time—at least they politely said they had, and they ’ve invited us to their dance next spring. We ’ve accepted, so please don’t object, Daddy dear.Julia and Sallie and I all had new dresses. Do you want to hear about them? Julia’s was cream satin and gold embroidery,and she wore purple orchids. It was adreamand came from Paris, and cost a million dollars.Sallie’s was pale blue trimmed with Persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. It did n’t cost quite a million, but was just as effective as Julia’s.Mine was pale pink crêpe de chine trimmed with écru lace and rose satin. And I carried crimson roses which J. McB. sent (Sallie having told him what color to get). And we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match.You must be deeply impressed by these millinery details!One can’t help thinking, Daddy, what a colorless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words. Whereas a woman, whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servantsor parallelograms or gardens or Plato or bridge—is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.It ’s the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (That is n’t original. I got it out of one of Shakespeare’s plays.)However, to resume. Do you want me to tell you a secret that I ’ve lately discovered? And will you promise not to think me vain? Then listen:I ’m pretty.I am, really. I ’d be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room.A Friend.P. S. This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels.December 20th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,I ’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suitcase, and catch the four-o’clock train—but I could n’t go without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my Christmas box.I love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse—and most of all I love you! But Daddy, you have nobusinessto spoil me this way. I ’m only human—and a girl at that. How can I keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities?I have strong suspicions now as to which one of the John Grier Trustees used to givethe Christmas tree and the Sunday ice-cream. He was nameless, but by his works I know him! You deserve to be happy for all the good things you do.Good-by, and a very merry Christmas.Yours always,Judy.P. S. I am sending a slight token, too. Do you think you would like her if you knew her?January 11th.I meant to write to you from the city, Daddy, but New York is an engrossing place.I had an interesting—and illuminating—time, but I ’m glad I don’t belong in such a family! I should truly rather have the John Grier Home for a background. Whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretense about it. I know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by Things. The material atmosphere of that house was crushing; I did n’t draw a deep breath until I was on an express train coming back. All the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people I met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it ’s the truth, Daddy,I never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. I don’t think an idea ever entered the front door.Mrs. Pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dressmakers and social engagements. She did seem a different kind of mother from Mrs. McBride! If I ever marry and have a family, I ’m going to make them as exactly like the McBrides as I can. Not for all the money in the world would I ever let any children of mine develop into Pendletons. Maybe it is n’t polite to criticize people you ’ve been visiting? If it is n’t, please excuse. This is very confidential, between you and me.I only saw Master Jervie once when he called at tea time, and then I did n’t have a chance to speak to him alone. It was sort of disappointing after our nice time last summer. I don’t think he cares much for his relatives—and I am sure they don’t care much for him! Julia’s mother says he ’s unbalanced. He ’s a Socialist—except,thank Heaven, he does n’t let his hair grow and wear red ties. She can’t imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been Church of England for generations. He throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. He does buy candy with it though! He sent Julia and me each a box for Christmas.You know, I think I ’ll be a Socialist, too. You would n’t mind, would you, Daddy? They ’re quite different from Anarchists; they don’t believe in blowing people up. Probably I am one by rights; I belong to the proletariat. I have n’t determined yet just which kind I am going to be. I will look into the subject over Sunday, and declare my principles in my next.I ’ve seen loads of theaters and hotels and beautiful houses. My mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding andmosaic floors and palms. I ’m still pretty breathless but I am glad to get back to college and my books—I believe that I really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm I find more bracing than New York. College is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. We spend a whole evening in nothing but talk—talk—talk—and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. And filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense—just silly jokes about the little things that come up—but very satisfying. We do appreciate our own witticisms!It is n’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it ’s making a great dealout of the little ones—I ’ve discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in thenow. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. It ’s like farming. You can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, I am going to have intensive living after this. I ’m going to enjoy every second, and I ’m going toknowI ’m enjoying it while I ’m enjoying it. Most people don’t live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it does n’t make any difference whether they ’ve reached the goal or not. I ’ve decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a GreatAuthor. Did you ever know such a philosopheress as I am developing into?Yours ever,Judy.P. S. It ’s raining cats and dogs to-night. Two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill.Dear Comrade,Hooray! I ’m a Fabian.That ’s a Socialist who ’s willing to wait. We don’t want the social revolution to come to-morrow morning; it would be too upsetting. We want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock.In the meantime we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms.Yours, with fraternal love,Judy.Monday, 3d hour.February 11th.Dear D. L. L.,Don’t be insulted because this is so short. It is n’t a letter; it ’s just alineto say that I ’m going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. It is not only necessary that I pass, but passWELL. I have a scholarship to live up to.Yours, studying hard,J. A.March 5th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,President Cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. He says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavor and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude toward organized authority. We no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors.I came away from chapel very sober.Am I too familiar, Daddy? Ought I to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?—Yes, I ’m sure I ought. I ’ll begin again........My dear Mr. Smith,You will be pleased to hear that I passed successfully my mid-year examinations,and am now commencing work in the new semester. I am leaving chemistry—having completed the course in qualitative analysis—and am entering upon the study of biology. I approach this subject with some hesitation, as I understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs.An extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon Roman Remains in Southern France. I have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject.We are reading Wordsworth’s “Tinturn Abbey” in connection with our course in English Literature. What an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conception of Pantheism! The Romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as Shelley, Byron, Keats, and Wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the Classical period that precededit. Speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of Tennyson’s called “Locksley Hall”?I am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. A proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. The gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. My room-mate, Miss McBride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and I am about to begin swimming lessons.We had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. Only vegetable dyes are used in coloring the food. The college is very much opposed, both from esthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes.The weather of late has been ideal—bright sunshine and clouds interspersedwith a few welcome snow-storms. I and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes—particularly from.Trusting, my dear Mr. Smith, that this will find you in your usual good health,I remain,Most cordially yours,Jerusha Abbott.April 24th.Dear Daddy,Spring has come again! You should see how lovely the campus is. I think you might come and look at it for yourself. Master Jervie dropped in again last Friday—but he chose a most unpropitious time, for Sallie and Julia and I were just running to catch a train. And where do you think we were going? To Princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! I did n’t ask you if I might go, because I had a feeling that your secretary would say no. But it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and Mrs. McBride chaperoned us. We had a charming time—but I shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated.Saturday.girls greeting the rising sunUp before dawn! The night watchman called us—six of us—and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of One Tree Hill to see the sun rise. We had to scramble up the last slope! The sun almost beat us! And perhapsyou think we did n’t bring back appetites to breakfast!Dear me, Daddy, I seem to have a very ejaculatory style to-day; this page is peppered with exclamations.This is Prexy’s kitten. You can see from the picture how Angora he is.I meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for to-morrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and Catherine Prentiss who has pneumonia, and Prexy’s Angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in Fergussen Hall for two weeksuntil a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses—white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match—but I am too sleepy. I am always making this an excuse, am I not? But a girl’s college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! Particularly when the day begins at dawn.Affectionately,Judy.May 15th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,Is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else?A very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car to-day, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. It does n’t seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. Anyway, you miss a lot. While she was absorbing that silly sign, I was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings.The accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. It looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it is n’tat all; it ’s a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium.Judy learning to swimThe instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. It would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one’s instructor. I ’m always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so I keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest I do not make the progress that I otherwise might.Very miscellaneous weather we ’re having of late. It was raining when I commenced and now the sun is shining. Sallie and I are going out to play tennis—thereby gaining exemption from Gym.A week later.I should have finished this letter long ago, but I did n’t. You don’t mind, do you, Daddy, if I ’m not very regular? I really do love towriteto you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. Would you likemeto tell you something? You are not the only man to whom I write letters. There are two others! I have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from Master Jervie (with typewritten envelopes so Julia won’t recognize the writing). Did you ever hear anything so shocking? And every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from Princeton. All of which I answer withbusinesslike promptness. So you see—I am not so different from other girls—I get mail, too.Did I tell you that I have been elected a member of the Senior Dramatic Club? Veryrecherchéorganization. Only seventy-five members out of one thousand. Do you think as a consistent Socialist that I ought to belong?What do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? I am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the Care of Dependent Children. The Professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me.C’est drôle ça n’est pas?There goes the gong for dinner. I ’ll mail this as I pass the chute.Affectionately,J.June 4th.Dear Daddy,Very busy time—commencement in ten days, examinations to-morrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoors world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside.But never mind, vacation ’s coming. Julia is going abroad this summer—it makes the fourth time. No doubt about it, Daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. Sallie, as usual, goes to the Adirondacks. And what do you think I am going to do? You may have three guesses. Lock Willow? Wrong. The Adirondacks with Sallie? Wrong. (I ’ll never attempt that again; I was discouraged last year.) Can’t you guess anything else? You ’re not very inventive. I ’ll tell you, Daddy,if you ’ll promise not to make a lot of objections. I warn your secretary ahead of time that my mind is made up.I am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a Mrs. Charles Paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. I met her through the McBrides, and she is a very charming woman. I am to give lessons in English and Latin to the younger daughter, too, but I shall have a little time to myself, and I shall be earning fifty dollars a month! Does n’t that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? She offered it; I should have blushed to ask more than twenty-five.I finish at Magnolia (that ’s where she lives) the first of September and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at Lock Willow—I should like to see the Semples again and all the friendly animals.How does my program strike you, Daddy? I am getting quite independent,you see. You have put me on my feet and I think I can almost walk alone by now.Princetoncommencement and our examinations exactly coincide—which is an awful blow. Sallie and I did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible.Good-by, Daddy. Have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (That ’s what you ought to be writing to me!) I have n’t an idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. I can’t visualize your surroundings. Do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate?Anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don’t forget Judy.June Tenth.Dear Daddy,This is the hardest letter I ever wrote, but I have decided what I must do, and there is n’t going to be any turning back. It is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to Europe this summer—for the moment I was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. It would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! You must n’t get me used to too many luxuries. One does n’t miss what one has never had; but it is awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his—hers (English language needs another pronoun) by natural right. Living with Sallie andJulia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. They have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. The World, they think, owes them everything they want. Maybe the World does—in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. But as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. I have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the World will repudiate my claim.I seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor—but I hope you grasp my meaning? Anyway, I have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself........Magnolia,Four days later.I ’d got just that much written, when—what do you think happened? The maidarrived with Master Jervie’s card. He is going abroad too this summer; not with Julia and her family but entirely by himself. I told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. He knows about you, Daddy. That is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; I simply did n’t have the courage to tell him about the John Grier Home and all the rest. He thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. I have never told him that I did n’t know you—that would seem too queer!Anyway, he insisted on my going to Europe. He said that it was a necessary part of my education and that I must n’t think of refusing. Also, that he would be in Paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants.Well, Daddy, it did appeal to me! I almost weakened; if he had n’t been so dictatorial, maybe I should have entirely weakened. I can be enticed step by step, but Iwon’tbe forced. He said I was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me) and that I did n’t know what was good for me; I ought to let older people judge. We almost quarreled—I am not sure but that we entirely did!In any case, I packed my trunk fast and came up here. I thought I ’d better see my bridges in flames behind me before I finished writing to you. They are entirely reduced to ashes now. Here I am at Cliff Top (the name of Mrs. Paterson’s cottage) with my trunk unpacked and Florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. And it bids fair to be a struggle! She is a most uncommonly spoiled child; I shall have to teach her firsthow to study—she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water.We use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom—Mrs. Paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors—and I will say thatIfind it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! And when I think I might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands—but Iwon’tlet myself think of anything but Latin Grammar.The prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de, e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative.So you see, Daddy, I am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. Don’t be cross with me, please, and don’t think that I do not appreciate your kindness, for I do—always—always. The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens?I don’t suppose they are). Anyway, a Very Useful Person. And when you look at me you can say, “I gave that Very Useful Person to the world.”That sounds well, does n’t it, Daddy? But I don’t wish to mislead you. The feeling often comes over me that I am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability, I shan’t turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. I may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work.Yours ever,Judy.August 19th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,My window looks out on the loveliest landscape—ocean-scape rather—nothing but water and rocks.The summer goes. I spend the morning with Latin and English and algebra and my two stupid girls. I don’t know how Marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. And as for Florence, she is hopeless—but oh! such a little beauty. I don’t suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? One can’t help thinking though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. I suppose that ’s quite possible; the world seemsto be filled with stupid men; I ’ve met a number this summer.In the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. I can swim in salt water with the utmost ease—you see my education is already being put to use!A letter comes from Mr. Jervis Pendleton in Paris, rather a short, concise letter; I ’m not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. However, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at Lock Willow before college opens, and if I am very nice and sweet and docile, I shall (I am led to infer) be received into favor again.Also a letter from Sallie. She wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in September. Must I ask your permission, or have n’t I yet arrived at the place where I can do as I please? Yes, I am sure I have—I ’m a Senior, you know. Having worked all summer, I feel like taking a littlehealthful recreation; I want to see the Adirondacks; I want to see Sallie; I want to see Sallie’s brother—he ’s going to teach me to canoe—and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) I want Master Jervie to arrive at Lock Willow and find me not there.Imustshow him that he can’t dictate to me. No one can dictate to me but you, Daddy—and you can’t always! I ’m off for the woods.Judy.Camp McBride,September 6th.Dear Daddy,Your letter did n’t come in time (I am pleased to say). If you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. As you observe, I am here, and have been for five days.The woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the McBrides, and so is the whole world. I ’m very happy!There ’s Jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. Good-by—sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? When I ’ve worked all summer I deserve twoweeks. You are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish.However—I love you still, Daddy, in spite of all your faults.Judy.
September 26th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Back at college again and an upper classman. Our study is better than ever this year—faces the South with two huge windows—and oh! so furnished. Julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever of settling.
We have new wall paper and Oriental rugs and mahogany chairs—not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. It ’s very gorgeous, but I don’t feel as though I belonged in it; I ’m nervous all the time for fear I ’ll get an ink spot in the wrong place.
And, Daddy, I found your letter waiting for me—pardon—I mean your secretary’s.
Will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why I should not accept that scholarship? I don’t understand your objection in the least. But anyway, it won’t do the slightest good for you to object, for I ’ve already accepted it—and I am not going to change! That sounds a little impertinent, but I don’t mean it so.
I suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you ’d like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end.
But look at it just a second from my point of view. I shall owe my education to you just as much as though I let you pay for the whole of it, but I won’t be quite so much indebted. I know that you don’t want me to return the money, but nevertheless, I am going to want to do it, if I possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. I was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, butnow I shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it.
I hope you understand my position and won’t be cross. The allowance I shall still most gratefully accept. It requires an allowance to live up to Julia and her furniture! I wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate.
This is n’t much of a letter; I meant to have written a lot—but I ’ve been hemming four window curtains and three portières (I ’m glad you can’t see the length of the stitches) and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work) and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it does n’t seem believable that Jerusha Abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between.
Opening day is a joyous occasion!
Good night, Daddy dear, and don’t be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. She ’s growing up into an awfully energetic little hen—with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you).
Affectionately,
Judy.
September 30th.
Dear Daddy,
Are you still harping on that scholarship? I never knew a man so obstinate and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people’s-points-of-view as you.
You prefer that I should not be accepting favors from strangers.
Strangers!—And what are you, pray?
Is there any one in the world that I know less? I should n’t recognize you if I met you on the street. Now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering, fatherly letters to your little Judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl—Then, perhaps, she would n’t have floutedyou in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be.
Strangers indeed! You live in a glass house, Mr. Smith.
And besides, this is n’t a favor; it ’s like a prize—I earned it by hard work. If nobody had been good enough in English, the committee would n’t have awarded the scholarship; some years they don’t. Also—But what ’s the use of arguing with a man? You belong, Mr. Smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. To bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. I scorn to coax men for what I wish. Therefore, I must be disagreeable.
I refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, I won’t accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid Freshmen.
That is my ultimatum!
And listen—I have a further thought. Since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship, I am depriving some one else of an education, I know a way out. You can apply the money that you would have spent for me, toward educating some other little girl from the John Grier Home. Don’t you think that ’s a nice idea? Only, Daddy,educatethe new girl as much as you choose, but please don’tlikeher any better than me.
I trust that your secretary won’t be hurt because I pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but I can’t help it if he is. He ’s a spoiled child, Daddy. I ’ve meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time I intend to be FIRM.
Yours,
With a Mind,
Completely and Irrevocably and
World-without-End Made-up.
Jerusha Abbott.
Judy with Julia, Sallie, Jervis and other friends
“I LIKE MY DIFFERENT FRIENDS TO KNOW EACH OTHER.”
November 9th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I started down town to-day to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream and a cake of Castile soap—all very necessary; I could n’t be happy another day without them—and when I tried to pay the car fare, I found that I had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. So I had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium.
It ’s a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats!
Julia Pendleton has invited me to visit her for the Christmas holidays. How does that strike you, Mr. Smith? Fancy Jerusha Abbott, of the John Grier Home, sitting atthe tables of the rich. I don’t know why Julia wants me—she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. I should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to Sallie’s, but Julia asked me first, so if I go anywhere, it must be to New York instead of to Worcester. I ’m rather awed at the prospect of meeting Pendletonsen masse, and also I ’d have to get a lot of new clothes—so, Daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, I will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility.
I ’m engaged at odd moments with the “Life and Letters of Thomas Huxley”—it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. Do you know what an archæopteryx is? It ’s a bird. And a stereognathus? I ’m not sure myself but I think it ’s a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. No, it is n’t either; I ’ve just looked in the book. It ’s a mesozoic mammal.
This is the only picture extant of a stereognathus. He has a head like a snake and ears like a dog and feet like a cow and a tail like a lizard and wings like a swan and is covered with nice soft fur like a sweet little pussy cat.
I ’ve elected economics this year—very illuminating subject. When I finish that I ’m going to take Charity and Reform; then, Mr. Trustee, I ’ll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. Don’t you think I ’d make an admirable voter if I had my rights? I was twenty-one last week. This is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as I would be.
Yours always,
Judy.
December 7th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Thank you for permission to visit Julia—I take it that silence means consent.
Such a social whirl as we ’ve been having! The Founder’s dance came last week—this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed.
I invited Jimmie McBride, and Sallie invited his room-mate at Princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp—an awfully nice man with red hair—and Julia invited a man from New York, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. He is connected with the De la Mater Chichesters. Perhaps that means something to you? It does n’t illuminate me to any extent.
However—our guests came Friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. The hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. Jimmie McBride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their Adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus.
At seven-thirty they came back for the President’s reception and dance. Our functions commence early! We had the men’s cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we ’d leave them in groups under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. Jimmie McBride, for example, would stand patiently under “M” until he was claimed. (At least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with “R’s” and “S’s” and all sorts of letters.) I found him a very difficult guest; he was sulkybecause he had only three dances with me. He said he was bashful about dancing with girls he did n’t know!
The next morning we had a glee club concert—and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? It ’s the truth. She did. Oh, I tell you, Daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person!
Anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and I think the men enjoyed it. Some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. Our two Princeton men had a beautiful time—at least they politely said they had, and they ’ve invited us to their dance next spring. We ’ve accepted, so please don’t object, Daddy dear.
Julia and Sallie and I all had new dresses. Do you want to hear about them? Julia’s was cream satin and gold embroidery,and she wore purple orchids. It was adreamand came from Paris, and cost a million dollars.
Sallie’s was pale blue trimmed with Persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. It did n’t cost quite a million, but was just as effective as Julia’s.
Mine was pale pink crêpe de chine trimmed with écru lace and rose satin. And I carried crimson roses which J. McB. sent (Sallie having told him what color to get). And we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match.
You must be deeply impressed by these millinery details!
One can’t help thinking, Daddy, what a colorless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words. Whereas a woman, whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servantsor parallelograms or gardens or Plato or bridge—is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.
It ’s the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (That is n’t original. I got it out of one of Shakespeare’s plays.)
However, to resume. Do you want me to tell you a secret that I ’ve lately discovered? And will you promise not to think me vain? Then listen:
I ’m pretty.
I am, really. I ’d be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room.
A Friend.
P. S. This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels.
December 20th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I ’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suitcase, and catch the four-o’clock train—but I could n’t go without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my Christmas box.
I love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse—and most of all I love you! But Daddy, you have nobusinessto spoil me this way. I ’m only human—and a girl at that. How can I keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities?
I have strong suspicions now as to which one of the John Grier Trustees used to givethe Christmas tree and the Sunday ice-cream. He was nameless, but by his works I know him! You deserve to be happy for all the good things you do.
Good-by, and a very merry Christmas.
Yours always,
Judy.
P. S. I am sending a slight token, too. Do you think you would like her if you knew her?
January 11th.
I meant to write to you from the city, Daddy, but New York is an engrossing place.
I had an interesting—and illuminating—time, but I ’m glad I don’t belong in such a family! I should truly rather have the John Grier Home for a background. Whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretense about it. I know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by Things. The material atmosphere of that house was crushing; I did n’t draw a deep breath until I was on an express train coming back. All the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people I met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it ’s the truth, Daddy,I never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. I don’t think an idea ever entered the front door.
Mrs. Pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dressmakers and social engagements. She did seem a different kind of mother from Mrs. McBride! If I ever marry and have a family, I ’m going to make them as exactly like the McBrides as I can. Not for all the money in the world would I ever let any children of mine develop into Pendletons. Maybe it is n’t polite to criticize people you ’ve been visiting? If it is n’t, please excuse. This is very confidential, between you and me.
I only saw Master Jervie once when he called at tea time, and then I did n’t have a chance to speak to him alone. It was sort of disappointing after our nice time last summer. I don’t think he cares much for his relatives—and I am sure they don’t care much for him! Julia’s mother says he ’s unbalanced. He ’s a Socialist—except,thank Heaven, he does n’t let his hair grow and wear red ties. She can’t imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been Church of England for generations. He throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. He does buy candy with it though! He sent Julia and me each a box for Christmas.
You know, I think I ’ll be a Socialist, too. You would n’t mind, would you, Daddy? They ’re quite different from Anarchists; they don’t believe in blowing people up. Probably I am one by rights; I belong to the proletariat. I have n’t determined yet just which kind I am going to be. I will look into the subject over Sunday, and declare my principles in my next.
I ’ve seen loads of theaters and hotels and beautiful houses. My mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding andmosaic floors and palms. I ’m still pretty breathless but I am glad to get back to college and my books—I believe that I really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm I find more bracing than New York. College is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. We spend a whole evening in nothing but talk—talk—talk—and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. And filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense—just silly jokes about the little things that come up—but very satisfying. We do appreciate our own witticisms!
It is n’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it ’s making a great dealout of the little ones—I ’ve discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in thenow. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. It ’s like farming. You can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, I am going to have intensive living after this. I ’m going to enjoy every second, and I ’m going toknowI ’m enjoying it while I ’m enjoying it. Most people don’t live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it does n’t make any difference whether they ’ve reached the goal or not. I ’ve decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a GreatAuthor. Did you ever know such a philosopheress as I am developing into?
Yours ever,
Judy.
P. S. It ’s raining cats and dogs to-night. Two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill.
Dear Comrade,
Hooray! I ’m a Fabian.
That ’s a Socialist who ’s willing to wait. We don’t want the social revolution to come to-morrow morning; it would be too upsetting. We want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock.
In the meantime we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms.
Yours, with fraternal love,
Judy.
Monday, 3d hour.
February 11th.
Dear D. L. L.,
Don’t be insulted because this is so short. It is n’t a letter; it ’s just alineto say that I ’m going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. It is not only necessary that I pass, but passWELL. I have a scholarship to live up to.
Yours, studying hard,
J. A.
March 5th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
President Cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. He says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavor and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude toward organized authority. We no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors.
I came away from chapel very sober.
Am I too familiar, Daddy? Ought I to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?—Yes, I ’m sure I ought. I ’ll begin again.
.......
My dear Mr. Smith,
You will be pleased to hear that I passed successfully my mid-year examinations,and am now commencing work in the new semester. I am leaving chemistry—having completed the course in qualitative analysis—and am entering upon the study of biology. I approach this subject with some hesitation, as I understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs.
An extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon Roman Remains in Southern France. I have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject.
We are reading Wordsworth’s “Tinturn Abbey” in connection with our course in English Literature. What an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conception of Pantheism! The Romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as Shelley, Byron, Keats, and Wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the Classical period that precededit. Speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of Tennyson’s called “Locksley Hall”?
I am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. A proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. The gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. My room-mate, Miss McBride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and I am about to begin swimming lessons.
We had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. Only vegetable dyes are used in coloring the food. The college is very much opposed, both from esthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes.
The weather of late has been ideal—bright sunshine and clouds interspersedwith a few welcome snow-storms. I and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes—particularly from.
Trusting, my dear Mr. Smith, that this will find you in your usual good health,
I remain,
Most cordially yours,
Jerusha Abbott.
April 24th.
Dear Daddy,
Spring has come again! You should see how lovely the campus is. I think you might come and look at it for yourself. Master Jervie dropped in again last Friday—but he chose a most unpropitious time, for Sallie and Julia and I were just running to catch a train. And where do you think we were going? To Princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! I did n’t ask you if I might go, because I had a feeling that your secretary would say no. But it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and Mrs. McBride chaperoned us. We had a charming time—but I shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated.
Saturday.
girls greeting the rising sun
Up before dawn! The night watchman called us—six of us—and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of One Tree Hill to see the sun rise. We had to scramble up the last slope! The sun almost beat us! And perhapsyou think we did n’t bring back appetites to breakfast!
Dear me, Daddy, I seem to have a very ejaculatory style to-day; this page is peppered with exclamations.
This is Prexy’s kitten. You can see from the picture how Angora he is.
I meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for to-morrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and Catherine Prentiss who has pneumonia, and Prexy’s Angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in Fergussen Hall for two weeksuntil a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses—white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match—but I am too sleepy. I am always making this an excuse, am I not? But a girl’s college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! Particularly when the day begins at dawn.
Affectionately,
Judy.
May 15th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else?
A very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car to-day, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. It does n’t seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. Anyway, you miss a lot. While she was absorbing that silly sign, I was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings.
The accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. It looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it is n’tat all; it ’s a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium.
Judy learning to swim
The instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. It would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one’s instructor. I ’m always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so I keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest I do not make the progress that I otherwise might.
Very miscellaneous weather we ’re having of late. It was raining when I commenced and now the sun is shining. Sallie and I are going out to play tennis—thereby gaining exemption from Gym.
A week later.
I should have finished this letter long ago, but I did n’t. You don’t mind, do you, Daddy, if I ’m not very regular? I really do love towriteto you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. Would you likemeto tell you something? You are not the only man to whom I write letters. There are two others! I have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from Master Jervie (with typewritten envelopes so Julia won’t recognize the writing). Did you ever hear anything so shocking? And every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from Princeton. All of which I answer withbusinesslike promptness. So you see—I am not so different from other girls—I get mail, too.
Did I tell you that I have been elected a member of the Senior Dramatic Club? Veryrecherchéorganization. Only seventy-five members out of one thousand. Do you think as a consistent Socialist that I ought to belong?
What do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? I am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the Care of Dependent Children. The Professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me.C’est drôle ça n’est pas?
There goes the gong for dinner. I ’ll mail this as I pass the chute.
Affectionately,
J.
June 4th.
Dear Daddy,
Very busy time—commencement in ten days, examinations to-morrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoors world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside.
But never mind, vacation ’s coming. Julia is going abroad this summer—it makes the fourth time. No doubt about it, Daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. Sallie, as usual, goes to the Adirondacks. And what do you think I am going to do? You may have three guesses. Lock Willow? Wrong. The Adirondacks with Sallie? Wrong. (I ’ll never attempt that again; I was discouraged last year.) Can’t you guess anything else? You ’re not very inventive. I ’ll tell you, Daddy,if you ’ll promise not to make a lot of objections. I warn your secretary ahead of time that my mind is made up.
I am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a Mrs. Charles Paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. I met her through the McBrides, and she is a very charming woman. I am to give lessons in English and Latin to the younger daughter, too, but I shall have a little time to myself, and I shall be earning fifty dollars a month! Does n’t that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? She offered it; I should have blushed to ask more than twenty-five.
I finish at Magnolia (that ’s where she lives) the first of September and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at Lock Willow—I should like to see the Semples again and all the friendly animals.
How does my program strike you, Daddy? I am getting quite independent,you see. You have put me on my feet and I think I can almost walk alone by now.
Princetoncommencement and our examinations exactly coincide—which is an awful blow. Sallie and I did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible.
Good-by, Daddy. Have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (That ’s what you ought to be writing to me!) I have n’t an idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. I can’t visualize your surroundings. Do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate?
Anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don’t forget Judy.
June Tenth.
Dear Daddy,
This is the hardest letter I ever wrote, but I have decided what I must do, and there is n’t going to be any turning back. It is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to Europe this summer—for the moment I was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. It would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! You must n’t get me used to too many luxuries. One does n’t miss what one has never had; but it is awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his—hers (English language needs another pronoun) by natural right. Living with Sallie andJulia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. They have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. The World, they think, owes them everything they want. Maybe the World does—in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. But as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. I have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the World will repudiate my claim.
I seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor—but I hope you grasp my meaning? Anyway, I have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself.
.......
Magnolia,
Four days later.
I ’d got just that much written, when—what do you think happened? The maidarrived with Master Jervie’s card. He is going abroad too this summer; not with Julia and her family but entirely by himself. I told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. He knows about you, Daddy. That is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; I simply did n’t have the courage to tell him about the John Grier Home and all the rest. He thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. I have never told him that I did n’t know you—that would seem too queer!
Anyway, he insisted on my going to Europe. He said that it was a necessary part of my education and that I must n’t think of refusing. Also, that he would be in Paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants.
Well, Daddy, it did appeal to me! I almost weakened; if he had n’t been so dictatorial, maybe I should have entirely weakened. I can be enticed step by step, but Iwon’tbe forced. He said I was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me) and that I did n’t know what was good for me; I ought to let older people judge. We almost quarreled—I am not sure but that we entirely did!
In any case, I packed my trunk fast and came up here. I thought I ’d better see my bridges in flames behind me before I finished writing to you. They are entirely reduced to ashes now. Here I am at Cliff Top (the name of Mrs. Paterson’s cottage) with my trunk unpacked and Florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. And it bids fair to be a struggle! She is a most uncommonly spoiled child; I shall have to teach her firsthow to study—she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water.
We use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom—Mrs. Paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors—and I will say thatIfind it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! And when I think I might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands—but Iwon’tlet myself think of anything but Latin Grammar.
The prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de, e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative.
So you see, Daddy, I am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. Don’t be cross with me, please, and don’t think that I do not appreciate your kindness, for I do—always—always. The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens?I don’t suppose they are). Anyway, a Very Useful Person. And when you look at me you can say, “I gave that Very Useful Person to the world.”
That sounds well, does n’t it, Daddy? But I don’t wish to mislead you. The feeling often comes over me that I am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability, I shan’t turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. I may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work.
Yours ever,
Judy.
August 19th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
My window looks out on the loveliest landscape—ocean-scape rather—nothing but water and rocks.
The summer goes. I spend the morning with Latin and English and algebra and my two stupid girls. I don’t know how Marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. And as for Florence, she is hopeless—but oh! such a little beauty. I don’t suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? One can’t help thinking though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. I suppose that ’s quite possible; the world seemsto be filled with stupid men; I ’ve met a number this summer.
In the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. I can swim in salt water with the utmost ease—you see my education is already being put to use!
A letter comes from Mr. Jervis Pendleton in Paris, rather a short, concise letter; I ’m not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. However, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at Lock Willow before college opens, and if I am very nice and sweet and docile, I shall (I am led to infer) be received into favor again.
Also a letter from Sallie. She wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in September. Must I ask your permission, or have n’t I yet arrived at the place where I can do as I please? Yes, I am sure I have—I ’m a Senior, you know. Having worked all summer, I feel like taking a littlehealthful recreation; I want to see the Adirondacks; I want to see Sallie; I want to see Sallie’s brother—he ’s going to teach me to canoe—and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) I want Master Jervie to arrive at Lock Willow and find me not there.
Imustshow him that he can’t dictate to me. No one can dictate to me but you, Daddy—and you can’t always! I ’m off for the woods.
Judy.
Camp McBride,
September 6th.
Dear Daddy,
Your letter did n’t come in time (I am pleased to say). If you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. As you observe, I am here, and have been for five days.
The woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the McBrides, and so is the whole world. I ’m very happy!
There ’s Jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. Good-by—sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? When I ’ve worked all summer I deserve twoweeks. You are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish.
However—I love you still, Daddy, in spite of all your faults.
Judy.
October 3rd.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,Back at college and a Senior—also editor of theMonthly. It does n’t seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!What do you think of this? A note from Master Jervie directed to Lock Willow and forwarded here. He ’s sorry but he finds that he can’t get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. Hopes I ’ve had a nice summer and am enjoying the country.And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, for Julia told him so! Youmen ought to leave intrigue to women; you have n’t a light enough touch.Julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes—an evening gown of rainbow Liberty crêpe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in Paradise. And I thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. I copied Mrs. Paterson’s wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns did n’t turn out quite twins of the originals, I was entirely happy until Julia unpacked. But now—I live to see Paris!Dear Daddy, are n’t you glad you ’re not a girl? I suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No doubt about it. But it ’s entirely your fault.Did you ever hear about the learned Herr Professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt, and favored sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? His wife,who was an obliging creature, adopted “dress reform.” And what do you think he did? He eloped with a chorus girl.Yours ever,Judy.P. S. The chamber-maid on our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I look at them.November 17th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,Such a blight has fallen over my literary career. I don’t know whether to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy—silent sympathy, please; don’t reopen the wound by referring to it in your next letter.I ’ve been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all summer when I was n’t teaching Latin to my two stupid children. I just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. He kept it two months, and I was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter—but frank! He said he saw from the address that I was still in college, and if Iwould accept some advice, he would suggest that I put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed his reader’s opinion. Here it is:“Plot highly improbable. Characterization exaggerated. Conversation unnatural. A good deal of humor but not always in the best of taste. Tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.”Not on the whole flattering, is it, Daddy? And I thought I was making a notable addition to American literature, I did truly. I was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I collected the material for it while I was at Julia’s last Christmas. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city.I took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when I came to the gas house, I went in and asked the engineer ifI might borrow his furnace. He politely opened the door, and with my own hands I chucked it in. I felt as though I had cremated my only child!I went to bed last night utterly dejected; I thought I was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. But what do you think? I woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and I ’ve been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as I could be. No one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! If I had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, I ’d bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set.Affectionately,Judy.December 14th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,I dreamed the funniest dream last night. I thought I went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named “The Life and Letters of Judy Abbott.” I could see it perfectly plainly—red cloth binding with a picture of the John Grier Home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, “Very truly yours, Judy Abbott,” written below. But just as I was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, I woke up. It was very annoying! I almost found out who I ’m going to marry and when I ’m going to die.Don’t you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life—written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? And suppose youcould only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. How many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? Or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises?Life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. But imagine howdeadlymonotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. Mercy! Daddy, there ’s a blot, but I ’m on the third page and I can’t begin a new sheet.I ’m going on with biology again this year—very interesting subject; we ’re studying the alimentary system at present. You should see how sweet a cross-sectionof the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope.Also we ’ve arrived at philosophy—interesting but evanescent. I prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. There ’s another! And another! This pen is weeping copiously. Please excuse its tears.Do you believe in free will? I do—unreservedly. I don’t agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. That ’s the most immoral doctrine I ever heard—nobody would be to blame for anything. If a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, “The Lord’s will be done,” and continue to sit until he fell over dead.I believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish—and that is the belief that moves mountains. You watch me become a great author!I have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted.This is a very abstruse letter—does your head ache, Daddy? I think we ’ll stop now and make some fudge. I ’m sorry I can’t send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we ’re going to make it with real cream and three butter balls.Yours affectionately,Judy.P. S. We ’re having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. You can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. The one on the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me—I mean I.line of dancing girlsDecember 26th.My dear, dear Daddy,Have n’t you any sense? Don’t youknowthat you must n’t give one girl seventeen Christmas presents? I ’m a Socialist, please remember; do you wish to turn me into a Plutocrat?Think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! I should have to engage a moving van to return your gifts.furniture van addressed to Daddy Long LegsI am sorry that the necktie I sent was so wobbly; I knit it with my own hands (as you doubtless discovered from internalevidence). You will have to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight.Thank you, Daddy, a thousand times. I think you ’re the sweetest man that ever lived—and the foolishest!Judy.Here ’s a four-leaf clover from Camp McBride to bring you good luck for the New Year.January 9th.Do you wish to do something, Daddy, that will insure your eternal salvation? There is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. A mother and father and four visible children—the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. The father worked in a glass factory and got consumption—it ’s awfully unhealthy work—and now has been sent away to a hospital. That took all of their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter who is twenty-four. She dressmakes for $1.50 a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centerpieces in the evening. The mother is n’t very strong and is extremely ineffectual andpious. She sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she does n’t see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter—and I don’t either. One hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for the three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she need n’t worry herself to death when a few days pass and she does n’t get work.You are the richest man I know. Don’t you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? That girl deserves help a lot more than I ever did. I would n’t ask it except for the girl; I don’t care much what happens to the mother—she is such a jelly-fish.The way people are forever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, “Perhaps it ’s all for the best,” when they are perfectlydead sure it ’s not, makes me enraged. Humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. I ’m for a more militant religion!We are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy—all of Schopenhauer for to-morrow. The professor does n’t seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. He ’s a queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. He tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism—and we do our best to smile, but I assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. He spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists.I ’m sure my sewing girl has n’t any doubt but that it exists!Where do you think my new novel is? In the waste basket. I can see myself thatit ’s no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, whatwouldbe the judgment of a critical public?Later.I address you, Daddy, from a bed of pain. For two days I ’ve been laid up with swollen tonsils; I can just swallow hot milk, and that is all. “What were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when you were a baby?” the doctor wished to know. I ’m sure I have n’t an idea, but I doubt if they were thinking much about me.Yours,J. A.Next morning.I just read this over before sealing it. I don’t knowwhyI cast such a misty atmosphere over life. I hasten to assure you that I am young and happy and exuberant;and I trust you are the same. Youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only withalivednessof spirit, so even if your hair is gray, Daddy, you can still be a boy.Affectionately,Judy.Jan. 12th.Dear Mr. Philanthropist,Your check for my family came yesterday. Thank you so much! I cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl’s face! She was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she ’s only twenty-four. Is n’t it pitiful?Anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. She has steady work ahead for two months—some one ’s getting married, and there ’s a trousseau to make.“Thank the good Lord!” cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars.“It was n’t the good Lord at all,” said I, “it was Daddy-Long-Legs.” (Mr. Smith, I called you.)“But it was the good Lord who put it in his mind,” said she.“Not at all! I put it in his mind myself,” said I.But anyway, Daddy, I trust the good Lord will reward you suitably. You deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory.Yours most gratefully,Judy Abbott.Feb. 15th.May it please Your Most Excellent Majesty:This morning I did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a goose, and I did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which I had never drank before.Don’t be nervous, Daddy—I have n’t lost my mind; I ’m merely quoting Sam’l Pepys. We ’re reading him in connection with English History, original sources. Sallie and Julia and I converse now in the language of 1660. Listen to this:“I went to Charing Cross to see Major Harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.” And this: “Dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.”Seems a little early to commence entertaining, does n’t it? A friend of Pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. What do you, a reformer, think of that? I don’t believe we ’re so bad to-day as the newspapers make out.Samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times as much on dress as his wife—that appears to have been the Golden Age of husbands. Is n’t this a touching entry? You see he really was honest. “To-day came home my fine Camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it.”Excuse me for being so full of Pepys; I ’m writing a special topic on him.What do you think, Daddy? The Self-Government Association has abolished the ten-o’clock rule. We can keep our lights all night if we choose, the only requirementbeing that we do not disturb others—we are not supposed to entertain on a large scale. The result is a beautiful commentary on human nature. Now that we may stay up as long as we choose, we no longer choose. Our heads begin to nod at nine o’clock, and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. It ’s nine-thirty now. Good night.Sunday.Just back from church—preacher from Georgia. We must take care, he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional natures—but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (Pepys again). It does n’t matter what part of the United States or Canada they come from, or what denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. Why on earth don’t they go to men’s colleges and urge the students not to allow their manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application?It ’s a beautiful day—frozen and icy and clear. As soon as dinner is over, Sallie and Julia and Marty Keene and Eleanor Pratt (friends of mine, but you don’t know them) and I are going to put on short skirts and walk ’cross country to Crystal Spring Farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have Mr. Crystal Spring drive us home in his buckboard. We are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point to-night and make it eight.Farewell, kind Sir.I have the honour of subscribing myself,Your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant,J. Abbott.March Fifth.Dear Mr. Trustee,To-morrow 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—mytrulylove. 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 ofvantage 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,April 4th.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 would n’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, restfultime. We climbed to the top of “Sky Hill” this morning where Master Jervie and I once cooked supper—it does n’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 ’ma 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 does n’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 have n’t given up hope yet.Good-by, Daddy dear,(I like to call you Daddy dear; it ’s so alliterative.)Affectionately,Judy.P. S. 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 he could n’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!May 17th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,This is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. Lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening makes too much writing.Commencement three weeks from next Wednesday. I think you might come and make my acquaintance—I shall hate you if you don’t! Julia ’s inviting Master Jervie, he being her family, and Sallie ’s inviting Jimmie McB., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite? Just you and Mrs. Lippett, and I don’t want her. Please come.Yours, with love and writer’s cramp.Judy.Lock Willow.June 19th.Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,I ’m educated! My diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my two best dresses. Commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. Thank you for your rosebuds. They were lovely. Master Jervie and Master Jimmie both gave me roses, too, but I left theirs in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession.Here I am at Lock Willow for the summer—forever maybe. The board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life. What more does a struggling author wish? I am mad about my book. I think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. All I want is peaceand quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing meals).Master Jervie is coming up for a week or so in August, and Jimmie McBride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. He ’s connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. He ’s going to combine the “Farmers’ National” at the Corners and me on the same trip.You see that Lock Willow is n’t entirely lacking in society. I ’d be expecting to have you come motoring through—only I know now that that is hopeless. When you would n’t come to my commencement, I tore you from my heart and buried you forever.Judy Abbott, A.B.
October 3rd.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Back at college and a Senior—also editor of theMonthly. It does n’t seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!
What do you think of this? A note from Master Jervie directed to Lock Willow and forwarded here. He ’s sorry but he finds that he can’t get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. Hopes I ’ve had a nice summer and am enjoying the country.
And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, for Julia told him so! Youmen ought to leave intrigue to women; you have n’t a light enough touch.
Julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes—an evening gown of rainbow Liberty crêpe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in Paradise. And I thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. I copied Mrs. Paterson’s wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns did n’t turn out quite twins of the originals, I was entirely happy until Julia unpacked. But now—I live to see Paris!
Dear Daddy, are n’t you glad you ’re not a girl? I suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No doubt about it. But it ’s entirely your fault.
Did you ever hear about the learned Herr Professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt, and favored sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? His wife,who was an obliging creature, adopted “dress reform.” And what do you think he did? He eloped with a chorus girl.
Yours ever,
Judy.
P. S. The chamber-maid on our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I look at them.
November 17th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Such a blight has fallen over my literary career. I don’t know whether to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy—silent sympathy, please; don’t reopen the wound by referring to it in your next letter.
I ’ve been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all summer when I was n’t teaching Latin to my two stupid children. I just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. He kept it two months, and I was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter—but frank! He said he saw from the address that I was still in college, and if Iwould accept some advice, he would suggest that I put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed his reader’s opinion. Here it is:
“Plot highly improbable. Characterization exaggerated. Conversation unnatural. A good deal of humor but not always in the best of taste. Tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.”
Not on the whole flattering, is it, Daddy? And I thought I was making a notable addition to American literature, I did truly. I was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I collected the material for it while I was at Julia’s last Christmas. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city.
I took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when I came to the gas house, I went in and asked the engineer ifI might borrow his furnace. He politely opened the door, and with my own hands I chucked it in. I felt as though I had cremated my only child!
I went to bed last night utterly dejected; I thought I was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. But what do you think? I woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and I ’ve been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as I could be. No one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! If I had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, I ’d bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set.
Affectionately,
Judy.
December 14th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I dreamed the funniest dream last night. I thought I went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named “The Life and Letters of Judy Abbott.” I could see it perfectly plainly—red cloth binding with a picture of the John Grier Home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, “Very truly yours, Judy Abbott,” written below. But just as I was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, I woke up. It was very annoying! I almost found out who I ’m going to marry and when I ’m going to die.
Don’t you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life—written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? And suppose youcould only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. How many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? Or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises?
Life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. But imagine howdeadlymonotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. Mercy! Daddy, there ’s a blot, but I ’m on the third page and I can’t begin a new sheet.
I ’m going on with biology again this year—very interesting subject; we ’re studying the alimentary system at present. You should see how sweet a cross-sectionof the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope.
Also we ’ve arrived at philosophy—interesting but evanescent. I prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. There ’s another! And another! This pen is weeping copiously. Please excuse its tears.
Do you believe in free will? I do—unreservedly. I don’t agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. That ’s the most immoral doctrine I ever heard—nobody would be to blame for anything. If a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, “The Lord’s will be done,” and continue to sit until he fell over dead.
I believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish—and that is the belief that moves mountains. You watch me become a great author!I have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted.
This is a very abstruse letter—does your head ache, Daddy? I think we ’ll stop now and make some fudge. I ’m sorry I can’t send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we ’re going to make it with real cream and three butter balls.
Yours affectionately,
Judy.
P. S. We ’re having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. You can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. The one on the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me—I mean I.
line of dancing girls
December 26th.
My dear, dear Daddy,
Have n’t you any sense? Don’t youknowthat you must n’t give one girl seventeen Christmas presents? I ’m a Socialist, please remember; do you wish to turn me into a Plutocrat?
Think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! I should have to engage a moving van to return your gifts.
furniture van addressed to Daddy Long Legs
I am sorry that the necktie I sent was so wobbly; I knit it with my own hands (as you doubtless discovered from internalevidence). You will have to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight.
Thank you, Daddy, a thousand times. I think you ’re the sweetest man that ever lived—and the foolishest!
Judy.
Here ’s a four-leaf clover from Camp McBride to bring you good luck for the New Year.
January 9th.
Do you wish to do something, Daddy, that will insure your eternal salvation? There is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. A mother and father and four visible children—the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. The father worked in a glass factory and got consumption—it ’s awfully unhealthy work—and now has been sent away to a hospital. That took all of their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter who is twenty-four. She dressmakes for $1.50 a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centerpieces in the evening. The mother is n’t very strong and is extremely ineffectual andpious. She sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she does n’t see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter—and I don’t either. One hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for the three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she need n’t worry herself to death when a few days pass and she does n’t get work.
You are the richest man I know. Don’t you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? That girl deserves help a lot more than I ever did. I would n’t ask it except for the girl; I don’t care much what happens to the mother—she is such a jelly-fish.
The way people are forever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, “Perhaps it ’s all for the best,” when they are perfectlydead sure it ’s not, makes me enraged. Humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. I ’m for a more militant religion!
We are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy—all of Schopenhauer for to-morrow. The professor does n’t seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. He ’s a queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. He tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism—and we do our best to smile, but I assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. He spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists.
I ’m sure my sewing girl has n’t any doubt but that it exists!
Where do you think my new novel is? In the waste basket. I can see myself thatit ’s no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, whatwouldbe the judgment of a critical public?
Later.
I address you, Daddy, from a bed of pain. For two days I ’ve been laid up with swollen tonsils; I can just swallow hot milk, and that is all. “What were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when you were a baby?” the doctor wished to know. I ’m sure I have n’t an idea, but I doubt if they were thinking much about me.
Yours,
J. A.
Next morning.
I just read this over before sealing it. I don’t knowwhyI cast such a misty atmosphere over life. I hasten to assure you that I am young and happy and exuberant;and I trust you are the same. Youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only withalivednessof spirit, so even if your hair is gray, Daddy, you can still be a boy.
Affectionately,
Judy.
Jan. 12th.
Dear Mr. Philanthropist,
Your check for my family came yesterday. Thank you so much! I cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl’s face! She was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she ’s only twenty-four. Is n’t it pitiful?
Anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. She has steady work ahead for two months—some one ’s getting married, and there ’s a trousseau to make.
“Thank the good Lord!” cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars.
“It was n’t the good Lord at all,” said I, “it was Daddy-Long-Legs.” (Mr. Smith, I called you.)
“But it was the good Lord who put it in his mind,” said she.
“Not at all! I put it in his mind myself,” said I.
But anyway, Daddy, I trust the good Lord will reward you suitably. You deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory.
Yours most gratefully,
Judy Abbott.
Feb. 15th.
May it please Your Most Excellent Majesty:
This morning I did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a goose, and I did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which I had never drank before.
Don’t be nervous, Daddy—I have n’t lost my mind; I ’m merely quoting Sam’l Pepys. We ’re reading him in connection with English History, original sources. Sallie and Julia and I converse now in the language of 1660. Listen to this:
“I went to Charing Cross to see Major Harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.” And this: “Dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.”
Seems a little early to commence entertaining, does n’t it? A friend of Pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. What do you, a reformer, think of that? I don’t believe we ’re so bad to-day as the newspapers make out.
Samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times as much on dress as his wife—that appears to have been the Golden Age of husbands. Is n’t this a touching entry? You see he really was honest. “To-day came home my fine Camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it.”
Excuse me for being so full of Pepys; I ’m writing a special topic on him.
What do you think, Daddy? The Self-Government Association has abolished the ten-o’clock rule. We can keep our lights all night if we choose, the only requirementbeing that we do not disturb others—we are not supposed to entertain on a large scale. The result is a beautiful commentary on human nature. Now that we may stay up as long as we choose, we no longer choose. Our heads begin to nod at nine o’clock, and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. It ’s nine-thirty now. Good night.
Sunday.
Just back from church—preacher from Georgia. We must take care, he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional natures—but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (Pepys again). It does n’t matter what part of the United States or Canada they come from, or what denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. Why on earth don’t they go to men’s colleges and urge the students not to allow their manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application?
It ’s a beautiful day—frozen and icy and clear. As soon as dinner is over, Sallie and Julia and Marty Keene and Eleanor Pratt (friends of mine, but you don’t know them) and I are going to put on short skirts and walk ’cross country to Crystal Spring Farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have Mr. Crystal Spring drive us home in his buckboard. We are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point to-night and make it eight.
Farewell, kind Sir.
I have the honour of subscribing myself,
Your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant,
J. Abbott.
March Fifth.
Dear Mr. Trustee,
To-morrow 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—mytrulylove. 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 ofvantage 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,
April 4th.
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 would n’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, restfultime. We climbed to the top of “Sky Hill” this morning where Master Jervie and I once cooked supper—it does n’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 ’ma 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 does n’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 have n’t given up hope yet.
Good-by, Daddy dear,
(I like to call you Daddy dear; it ’s so alliterative.)
Affectionately,
Judy.
P. S. 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 he could n’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!
May 17th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
This is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. Lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening makes too much writing.
Commencement three weeks from next Wednesday. I think you might come and make my acquaintance—I shall hate you if you don’t! Julia ’s inviting Master Jervie, he being her family, and Sallie ’s inviting Jimmie McB., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite? Just you and Mrs. Lippett, and I don’t want her. Please come.
Yours, with love and writer’s cramp.
Judy.
Lock Willow.
June 19th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I ’m educated! My diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my two best dresses. Commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. Thank you for your rosebuds. They were lovely. Master Jervie and Master Jimmie both gave me roses, too, but I left theirs in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession.
Here I am at Lock Willow for the summer—forever maybe. The board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life. What more does a struggling author wish? I am mad about my book. I think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. All I want is peaceand quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing meals).
Master Jervie is coming up for a week or so in August, and Jimmie McBride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. He ’s connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. He ’s going to combine the “Farmers’ National” at the Corners and me on the same trip.
You see that Lock Willow is n’t entirely lacking in society. I ’d be expecting to have you come motoring through—only I know now that that is hopeless. When you would n’t come to my commencement, I tore you from my heart and buried you forever.
Judy Abbott, A.B.