Daddy-Long-Legs
I actually believe it is--just about the tiny little things that
happened every day. I’m a 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 doesn’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 haven’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 couldn’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
peace and 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 isn’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 wouldn’t come to my commencement, I tore
you from my heart and buried you forever.
JUDY ABBOTT, A.B.
July 24th.
_Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Isn’t it fun to work--or don’t you ever do it? It’s especially fun
when your kind of work is the thing you’d rather do more than
anything else in the world. I’ve been writing as fast as my pen
would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is
that the days aren’t long enough to write all the beautiful and
valuable and entertaining thoughts I’m thinking.
I’ve finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the
third to-morrow morning at half-past seven. It’s the sweetest book
you ever saw--it is, truly. I think of nothing else. I can barely
wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then I write
and write and write till suddenly I’m so tired that I’m limp all
over. Then I go out with Colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through
the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. It’s
the most beautiful book you ever saw--Oh, pardon--I said that
before.
You don’t think me conceited, do you, Daddy dear?
I’m not, really, only just now I’m in the enthusiastic stage.
Maybe later on I’ll get cold and critical and sniffy. No, I’m sure
I won’t! This time I’ve written a real book. Just wait till you see
it.
I’ll try for a minute to talk about something else. I never told
you, did I, that Amasai and Carry got married last May? They are
still working here, but so far as I can see it has spoiled them
both. She used just to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes
on the floor, but now--you should hear her scold! And she doesn’t
curl her hair any longer. Amasai, who used to be so obliging about
beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a
thing. Also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where
they used to be scarlet and purple. I’ve determined never to marry.
It’s a deteriorating process, evidently.
There isn’t much of any farm news. The animals are all in the best
of health. The pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and
the hens are laying well. Are you interested in poultry? If so, let
me recommend that invaluable little work, “200 Eggs per Hen per
Year.” I am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and
raising broilers. You see I’m settled at Lock Willow permanently.
I have decided to stay until I’ve written 114 novels like Anthony
Trollope’s mother. Then I shall have completed my life work and can
retire and travel.
Mr. James McBride spent last Sunday with us. Fried chicken and
ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. I was
awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the
world at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time peddling
his bonds. The Farmers’ National at the Corners wouldn’t have
anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per
cent. interest and sometimes seven. I think he’ll end by going home
to Worcester and taking a job in his father’s factory. He’s too
open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful
financier. But to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is
a very desirable position, don’t you think? Just now he turns up his
nose at overalls, but he’ll come to them.
I hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a
person with writer’s cramp. But I still love you, Daddy dear, and
I’m very happy. With beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat
and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint
of ink--what more does one want in the world?
Yours, as always,
JUDY.
P. S. The postman arrives with some more news. We are to expect
Master Jervie on Friday next to spend a week. That’s a very
pleasant prospect--only I am afraid my poor book will suffer. Master
Jervie is very demanding.
August 27th.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Where are you, I wonder?
I never know what part of the world you are in, but I hope you’re
not in New York during this awful weather. I hope you’re on a
mountain peak (but not in Switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at
the snow and thinking about me. Please be thinking about me. I’m
quite lonely and I want to be thought about. Oh, Daddy, I wish I
knew you! Then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up.
I don’t think I can stand much more of Lock Willow. I’m thinking of
moving. Sallie is going to do settlement work in Boston next winter.
Don’t you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we
could have a studio together? I could write while she _settled_ and
we could be together in the evenings. Evenings are very long when
there’s no one but the Semples and Carrie and Amasai to talk to.
I know ahead of time that you won’t like my studio idea. I can read
your secretary’s letter now:
“_Miss Jerusha Abbott._
“DEAR MADAM,
“Mr. Smith prefers that you remain at Lock Willow.
“Yours truly,
“ELMER H. GRIGGS”.
I hate your secretary. I am certain that a man named Elmer H. Griggs
must be horrid. But truly, Daddy, I think I shall have to go to
Boston. I can’t stay here. If something doesn’t happen soon,
I shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation.
Mercy! but it’s hot. All the grass is burnt up and the brooks are
dry and the roads are dusty. It hasn’t rained for weeks and weeks.
This letter sounds as though I had hydrophobia, but I haven’t.
I just want some family.
Good-by, my dearest Daddy.
I wish I knew you.
JUDY.
LOCK WILLOW,
September 19th.
_Dear Daddy_,
Something has happened and I need advice. I need it from you, and
from nobody else in the world. Wouldn’t it be possible for me to
see you? It’s so much easier to talk than to write; and I’m afraid
your secretary might open the letter.
JUDY.
P. S. I’m very unhappy.
LOCK WILLOW,
October 3d.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--came
this morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I wouldn’t have
bothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you
the trouble, but it’s sort of complicated to write, and _very
private_. Please don’t keep this letter, but burn it.
Before I begin--here’s a check for one thousand dollars. It seems
funny, doesn’t it, for me to be sending a check to you? Where do
you think I got it?
I’ve sold my story, Daddy. It’s going to be published serially in
seven parts, and then in a book! You might think I’d be wild with
joy, but I’m not. I’m entirely apathetic. Of course I’m glad to
begin paying you--I owe you over two thousand more. It’s coming in
instalments. Now don’t be horrid, please, about taking it, because
it makes me happy to return it. I owe you a great deal more than the
mere money, and the rest I will continue to pay all my life in
gratitude and affection.
And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most
worldly advice, whether you think I’ll like it or not.
You know that I’ve always had a very special feeling toward you;
you sort of represented my whole family; but you won’t mind, will
you, if I tell you that I have a very much more special feeling for
another man? You can probably guess without much trouble who he is.
I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a
very long time.
I wish I could make you understand what he is like and how entirely
companionable we are. We think the same about everything--I am
afraid I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! But he
is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has
fourteen years’ start of me. In other ways, though, he’s just an
overgrown boy, and he does need looking after--he hasn’t any sense
about wearing rubbers when it rains. He and I always think the same
things are funny, and that is such a lot; it’s dreadful when two
people’s senses of humor are antagonistic. I don’t believe there’s
any bridging that gulf!
And he is--Oh, well! He is just himself, and I miss him, and miss
him, and miss him. The whole world seems empty and aching. I hate
the moonlight because it’s beautiful and he isn’t here to see it
with me. But maybe you’ve loved somebody, too, and you know? If you
have, I don’t need to explain; if you haven’t, I can’t explain.
Anyway, that’s the way I feel--and I’ve refused to marry him.
I didn’t tell him why; I was just dumb and miserable. I couldn’t
think of anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining that I
want to marry Jimmie McBride--I don’t in the least, I wouldn’t
think of marrying Jimmie; he isn’t grown up enough. But Master
Jervie and I got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding, and we