Daddy-Long-Legs
reading--Stevenson, mostly. He himself is more entertaining than any
of the characters in his books; I dare say he made himself into the
kind of hero that would look well in print. Don’t you think it was
perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father
left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the South Seas? He lived up
to his adventurous creed. If my father had left me ten thousand
dollars, I’d do it, too. The thought of Vailima makes me wild.
I want to see the tropics. I want to see the whole world. I am going
to some day--I am, really, Daddy, when I get to be a great author,
or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a great
person I turn out to be. I have a terrible wanderthirst; the very
sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella
and start. “I shall see before I die the palms and temples of the
South.”
Thursday evening at twilight, sitting on the doorstep.
Very hard to get any news into this letter! Judy is becoming so
philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the
world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of
daily life. But if you _must_ have news, here it is:
Our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last
Tuesday, and only eight came back. We don’t want to accuse any one
unjustly, but we suspect that Widow Dowd has one more than she ought
to have.
Mr. Weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin
yellow--a very ugly color, but he says it will wear.
The Brewers have company this week; Mrs. Brewer’s sister and two
nieces from Ohio.
One of our Rhode Island Reds only brought off three chicks out of
fifteen eggs. We can’t imagine what was the trouble. Rhode Island
Reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. I prefer Buff
Orpingtons.
The new clerk in the post-office at Bonnyrigg Four Corners drank
every drop of Jamaica ginger they had in stock--seven dollars’
worth--before he was discovered.
Old Ira Hatch has rheumatism and can’t work any more; he never saved
his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on
the town.
There’s to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next Saturday
evening. Come and bring your families.
I have a new hat that I bought for twenty-five cents at the
post-office. This is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay.
It’s getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up.
Good night,
JUDY.
Friday.
Good morning! Here _is_ some news! What do you think? You’d never,
never, never guess who’s coming to Lock Willow. A letter to Mrs.
Semple from Mr. Pendleton. He’s motoring through the Berkshires,
and is tired and wants to rest on a nice quiet farm--if he climbs
out at her doorstep some night will she have a room ready for him?
Maybe he’ll stay one week, or maybe two, or maybe three; he’ll see
how restful it is when he gets here.
Such a flutter as we are in! The whole house is being cleaned and
all the curtains washed. I am driving to the Corners this morning to
get some new oilcloth for the entry, and two cans of brown floor
paint for the hall and back stairs. Mrs. Dowd is engaged to come
to-morrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we
waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet). You might think, from
this account of our activities, that the house was not already
immaculate; but I assure you it was! Whatever Mrs. Semple’s
limitations, she is a HOUSEKEEPER.
But isn’t it just like a man, Daddy? He doesn’t give the remotest
hint as to whether he will land on the doorstep to-day, or two weeks
from to-day. We shall live in a perpetual breathlessness until he
comes--and if he doesn’t hurry, the cleaning may all have to be
done over again.
There’s Amasai waiting below with the buckboard and Grover. I drive
alone--but if you could see old Grove, you wouldn’t be worried as
to my safety.
With my hand on my heart--farewell.
JUDY.
P. S. Isn’t that a nice ending? I got it out of Stevenson’s
letters.
Saturday.
Good morning again! I didn’t get this _enveloped_ yesterday before
the postman came, so I’ll add some more. We have one mail a day at
twelve o’clock. Rural delivery is a blessing to the farmers! Our
postman not only delivers letters, but he runs errands for us in
town, at five cents an errand. Yesterday he brought me some
shoe-strings and a jar of cold cream (I sunburned all the skin off
my nose before I got my new hat) and a blue Windsor tie and a bottle
of blacking all for ten cents. That was an unusual bargain, owing to
the largeness of my order.
Also he tells us what is happening in the Great World. Several
people on the route take daily papers, and he reads them as he jogs
along, and repeats the news to the ones who don’t subscribe. So in
case a war breaks out between the United States and Japan, or the
president is assassinated, or Mr. Rockefeller leaves a million
dollars to the John Grier Home, you needn’t bother to write; I’ll
hear it anyway.
No sign yet of Master Jervie. But you should see how clean our house
is--and with what anxiety we wipe our feet before we step in!
I hope he’ll come soon; I am longing for some one to talk to. Mrs.
Semple, to tell you the truth, gets sort of monotonous. She never
lets ideas interrupt the easy flow of her conversation. It’s a
funny thing about the people here. Their world is just this single
hilltop. They are not a bit universal, if you know what I mean.
It’s exactly the same as at the John Grier Home. Our ideas there
were bounded by the four sides of the iron fence, only I didn’t
mind it so much because I was younger and was so awfully busy. By
the time I’d got all my beds made and my babies’ faces washed and
had gone to school and come home and had washed their faces again
and darned their stockings and mended Freddie Perkins’s trousers
(he tore them every day of his life) and learned my lessons in
between--I was ready to go to bed, and I didn’t notice any lack of
social intercourse. But after two years in a conversational college,
I do miss it; and I shall be glad to see somebody who speaks my
language.
I really believe I’ve finished, Daddy. Nothing else occurs to me at
the moment--I’ll try to write a longer letter next time.
Yours always,
JUDY.
P. S. The lettuce hasn’t done at all well this year. It was so dry
early in the season.
August 25th.
Well, Daddy, Master Jervie’s here. And such a nice time as we’re
having! At least I am, and I think he is, too--he has been here ten
days and he doesn’t show any signs of going. The way Mrs. Semple
pampers that man is scandalous. If she indulged him as much when he
was a baby, I don’t know how he ever turned out so well.
He and I eat at a little table set on the side porch, or sometimes
under the trees, or--when it rains or is cold--in the best parlor.
He just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and Carrie trots after
him with the table. Then if it has been an awful nuisance, and she
has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar under the
sugar bowl.
He is an awfully companionable sort of man, though you would never
believe it to see him casually; he looks at first glance like a true
Pendleton, but he isn’t in the least. He is just as simple and
unaffected and sweet as he can be--that seems a funny way to
describe a man, but it’s true. He’s extremely nice with the
farmers around here; he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion
that disarms them immediately. They were very suspicious at first.
They didn’t care for his clothes! And I will say that his clothes
are rather amazing. He wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets and
white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers. Whenever he
comes down in anything new, Mrs. Semple, beaming with pride, walks
around and views him from every angle, and urges him to be careful
where he sits down; she is so afraid he will pick up some dust. It
bores him dreadfully. He’s always saying to her:
“Run along, Lizzie, and tend to your work. You can’t boss me any
longer. I’ve grown up.”
It’s awfully funny to think of that great, big, long-legged man
(he’s nearly as long-legged as you, Daddy) ever sitting in Mrs.
Semple’s lap and having his face washed. Particularly funny when you
see her lap! She has two laps now, and three chins. But he says that
once she was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he.
Such a lot of adventures we’re having! We’ve explored the country
for miles, and I’ve learned to fish with funny little flies made of
feathers. Also to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. Also to ride
horse-back--there’s an astonishing amount of life in old Grove. We
fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost
ran away with me.
Wednesday.
We climbed Sky Hill Monday afternoon. That’s a mountain near here;
not an awfully high mountain, perhaps--no snow on the summit--but at
least you are pretty breathless when you reach the top. The lower
slopes are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and
open moor. We stayed up for the sunset and built a fire and cooked
our supper. Master Jervie did the cooking; he said he knew how
better than me--and he did, too, because he’s used to camping. Then
we came down by moonlight, and, when we reached the wood trail where
it was dark, by the light of an electric bulb that he had in his
pocket. It was such fun! He laughed and joked all the way and talked
about interesting things. He’s read all the books I’ve ever read,
and a lot of others besides. It’s astonishing how many different
things he knows.
We went for a long tramp this morning and got caught in a storm. Our
clothes were drenched before we reached home--but our spirits not
even damp. You should have seen Mrs. Semple’s face when we dripped
into her kitchen.
“Oh, Master Jervie--Miss Judy! You are soaked through. Dear! Dear!
What shall I do? That nice new coat is perfectly ruined.”
She was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten years
old, and she a distracted mother. I was afraid for a while that we
weren’t going to get any jam for tea.
Saturday.
I started this letter ages ago, but I haven’t had a second to
finish it.
Isn’t this a nice thought from Stevenson?
The world is so full of a number of things,
I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.
It’s true, you know. The world is full of happiness, and plenty to
go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your
way. The whole secret is in being _pliable_. In the country,
especially, there are such a lot of entertaining things. I can walk
over everybody’s land, and look at everybody’s view, and dabble in
everybody’s brook; and enjoy it just as much as though I owned the
land--and with no taxes to pay!
* * * * *
It’s Sunday night now, about eleven o’clock, and I am supposed to
be getting some beauty sleep, but I had black coffee for dinner,
so--no beauty sleep for me!
This morning, said Mrs. Semple to Mr. Pendleton, with a very
determined accent:
“We have to leave here at a quarter past ten in order to get to
church by eleven.”
“Very well, Lizzie,” said Master Jervie, “you have the surrey ready,
and if I’m not dressed, just go on without waiting.”
“We’ll wait,” said she.
“As you please,” said he, “only don’t keep the horses standing too
long.”
Then while she was dressing, he told Carrie to pack up a lunch, and
he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and we slipped out
the back way and went fishing.
It discommoded the household dreadfully, because Lock Willow of a
Sunday dines at two. But he ordered dinner at seven--he orders