Dear Enemy

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responsible citizens. I ought to have thought of it myself, but for some
reason the idea didn't come. Poor Judy! You have inside knowledge of the
longings of their little hearts that I shall never be able to achieve, not with
all the sympathy I can muster.
We are doing our best to run this institution with as few discommoding
rules as possible, but in regard to those play boxes there is one point on
which I shall have to be firm. The children may not keep in them mice or
toads or angleworms.
I can't tell you how pleased I am that Betsy's salary is to be raised, and that
we are to keep her permanently. But the Hon. Cy Wykoff deprecates the
step. He has been making inquiries, and he finds that her people are
perfectly able to take care of her without any salary.
"You don't furnish legal advice for nothing," say I to him. "Why should she
furnish her trained services for nothing?"
"This is charitable work."
"Then work which is undertaken for your own good should be paid, but
work which is undertaken for the public good should not be paid?"
"Fiddlesticks!" says he. "She's a woman, and her family ought to support
her."
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 109
This opened up vistas of argument which I did not care to enter with the
Hon. Cy, so I asked him whether he thought it would be nicer to have a real
lawn or hay on the slope that leads to the gate. He likes to be consulted, and
I pamper him as much as possible in all unessential details. You see, I am
following Sandy's canny advice: "Trustees are like fiddlestrings; they
maunna be screwed ower tight. Humor the mon, but gang your ain gait."
Oh, the tact that this asylum is teaching me! I should make a wonderful
politician's wife.
Thursday night.
You will be interested to hear that I have temporarily placed out Punch with
two charming spinsters who have long been tottering on the brink of a
child. They finally came last week, and said they would like to try one for a
month to see what the sensation felt like.
They wanted, of course, a pretty ornament, dressed in pink and white and
descended from the Mayflower. I told them that any one could bring up a
daughter of the Mayflower to be an ornament to society, but the real feat
was to bring up a son of an Italian organ-grinder and an Irish
washerwoman. And I offered Punch. That Neapolitan heredity of his,
artistically speaking, may turn out a glorious mixture, if the right
environment comes along to choke out all the weeds.
I put it up to them as a sporting proposition, and they were game. They
have agreed to take him for one month and concentrate upon his remaking
all their years of conserved force, to the end that he may be fit for adoption
in some moral family. They both have a sense of humor and
ACCOMPLISHING characters, or I should never have dared to propose it.
And really I believe it's going to be the one way of taming our young
fire-eater. They will furnish the affection and caresses and attention that in
his whole abused little life he has never had.
They live in a fascinating old house with an Italian garden, and furnishings
selected from the whole round world. It does seem like sacrilege to turn
that destructive child loose in such a collection of treasures. But he hasn't
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 110
broken anything here for more than a month, and I believe that the Italian in
him will respond to all that beauty.
I warned them that they must not shrink from any profanity that might issue
from his pretty baby lips.
He departed last night in a very fancy automobile, and maybe I wasn't glad
to say good-by to our disreputable young man! He has absorbed just about
half of my energy.
Friday.
The pendant arrived this morning. Many thanks! But you really ought not
to have given me another; a hostess cannot be held accountable for all the
things that careless guests lose in her house. It is far too pretty for my
chain. I am thinking of having my nose pierced, Cingalese fashion, and
wearing my new jewel where it will really show.
I must tell you that our Percy is putting some good constructive work into
this asylum. He has founded the John Grier Bank, and has worked out all
the details in a very professional and businesslike fashion, entirely
incomprehensible to my non-mathematical mind. All of the older children
possess properly printed checkbooks, and they are each to be paid five
dollars a week for their services, such as going to school and accomplishing
housework. They are then to pay the institution (by check) for their board
and clothes, which will consume their five dollars. It looks like a vicious
circle, but it's really very educative; they will comprehend the value of
money before we dump them into a mercenary world. Those who are
particularly good in lessons or work will receive an extra recompense. My
head aches at the thought of the bookkeeping, but Percy waves that aside as
a mere bagatelle. It is to be accomplished by our prize arithmeticians, and
will train them for positions of trust. If Jervis hears of any opening for bank
officials, let me know; I shall have a well-trained president, cashier, and
paying teller ready to be placed by this time next year.
Saturday.
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 111
Our doctor doesn't like to be called "Enemy." It hurts his feelings or his
dignity or something of the sort. But since I will persist, despite his
expostulations, he has finally retaliated with a nickname for me. He calls
me "Miss Sally Lunn," and is in a glow of pride at having achieved such an
imaginative flight.
He and I have invented a new pastime: he talks Scotch, and I answer in
Irish. Our conversations run like this:
"Good afthernoon to ye, docther. An' how's yer health the day?"
"Verra weel, verra weel. And how gas it wi' a' the bairns?"
"Shure, they're all av thim doin' foin."
"I'm gey glad to hear it. This saft weather is hard on folk. There's muckle
sickness aboot the kintra."
"Hiven be praised it has not lighted here! But sit down, docther, an' make
yersilf at home. Will ye be afther havin' a cup o' tay?"
"Hoot, woman! I would na hae you fash yoursel', but a wee drap tea winna
coom amiss."
"Whist! It's no thruble at all."
You may not think this a very dizzying excursion into frivolity; but I assure
you, for one of Sandy's dignity, it's positively riotous. The man has been in
a heavenly temper ever since I came back; not a single cross word. I am
beginning to think I may reform him as well as Punch.
This letter must be about long enough even for you. I've been writing it bit
by bit for three days, whenever I happened to pass my desk.
Yours as ever,
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 112
SALLIE.
P.S. I don't think much of your vaunted prescription for hair tonic. Either
the druggist didn't mix it right, or Jane didn't apply it with discretion. I
stuck to the pillow this morning.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME, Saturday. Dear Gordon:
Your letter of Thursday is at hand, and extremely silly I consider it. Of
course I am not trying to let you down easy; that isn't my way. If I let you [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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