TEN O'CLOCK.
I don't know what silly stuff I have been writing to you off and on all
day, between interruptions. It has got to be night at last, and I am too
tired to do so much as hold up my head. Your song tells the sad truth,
"There is no joy in life but sleep."
I bid you good night.
S. McB.
Isn't the English language absurd? Look at those forty monosyllables in
a row!
J. G. H.,
April 1.
Dear Judy:
I have placed out Isador Gutschneider. His new mother is a Swedish
woman, fat and smiling, with blue eyes and yellow hair. She chose him
out of the whole nurseryful of children because he was the brunettest
baby there. She has always loved brunettes, but in her most ambitious
dreams has never hoped to have one of her own. His name is going to be
changed to Oscar Carlson, after his new dead uncle.
My first trustees' meeting is to occur next Wednesday. I confess that I
am not looking forward to it with impatience--especially as an inaugural
address by me will be its chief feature. I wish our president were here
to back me up! But at least I am sure of one thing. I am never going to
adopt the Uriah Heepish attitude toward trustees that characterized Mrs.
Lippett's manners. I shall treat "first Wednesdays" as a pleasant social
diversion, my day at home, when the friends of the asylum gather for
discussion and relaxation; and I shall endeavor not to let our pleasures
discommode the orphans. You see how I have taken to heart the unhappy
experiences of that little Jerusha.
Your last letter has arrived, and no suggestion in it of traveling
North. Isn't it about time that you were turning your faces back toward
Fifth Avenue? Hame is hame, be 't ever sae hamely. Don't you marvel at
the Scotch that flows so readily from my pen? Since being acquent' wi'
Sandy, I hae gathered a muckle new vocabulary. The dinner gong! I leave
you, to devote a revivifying half-hour to mutton hash. We eat to live in
the John Grier Home.
SIX O'CLOCK.
The Hon. Cy has been calling again. He drops in with great frequency,
hoping to catch me IN DELICTU. How I do not like that man! He is a pink,
fat, puffy old thing, with a pink, fat, puffy soul. I was in a very
cheery, optimistic frame of mind before his arrival, but now I shall do
nothing but grumble for the rest of the day.
He deplores all of the useless innovations that I am endeavoring to
introduce, such as a cheerful playroom, prettier clothes, baths, and
better food and fresh air and play and fun and ice-cream and kisses.
He says that I will unfit these children to occupy the position in life
that God has called them to occupy.