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Dear Enemy

by Jean Webster · English · Gutenberg #238 · 388,350 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dear Enemy

Author: Jean Webster


        
Release date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #238]
                Most recently updated: November 10, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/238

Credits: Mike Lynch and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEAR ENEMY ***




DEAR ENEMY

By Jean Webster



STONE GATE, WORCESTER,

MASSACHUSETTS,

December 27.

Dear Judy:

Your letter is here. I have read it twice, and with amazement. Do I
understand that Jervis has given you, for a Christmas present, the
making over of the John Grier Home into a model institution, and that
you have chosen me to disburse the money? Me--I, Sallie McBride, the
head of an orphan asylum! My poor people, have you lost your senses, or
have you become addicted to the use of opium, and is this the raving of
two fevered imaginations? I am exactly as well fitted to take care of
one hundred children as to become the curator of a zoo.

And you offer as bait an interesting Scotch doctor? My dear
Judy,--likewise my dear Jervis,--I see through you! I know exactly
the kind of family conference that has been held about the Pendleton
fireside.

"Isn't it a pity that Sallie hasn't amounted to more since she left
college? She ought to be doing something useful instead of frittering
her time away in the petty social life of Worcester. Also [Jervis
speaks] she is getting interested in that confounded young Hallock, too
good-looking and fascinating and erratic; I never did like politicians.
We must deflect her mind with some uplifting and absorbing occupation
until the danger is past. Ha! I have it! We will put her in charge of
the John Grier Home." Oh, I can hear him as clearly as if I were there!
On the occasion of my last visit in your delectable household Jervis and
I had a very solemn conversation in regard to (1) marriage, (2) the low
ideals of politicians, (3) the frivolous, useless lives that society
women lead.

Please tell your moral husband that I took his words deeply to heart,
and that ever since my return to Worcester I have been spending one
afternoon a week reading poetry with the inmates of the Female Inebriate
Asylum. My life is not so purposeless as it appears.

Also let me assure you that the politician is not dangerously imminent;
and that, anyway, he is a very desirable politician, even though
his views on tariff and single tax and trade-unionism do not exactly
coincide with Jervis's.

Your desire to dedicate my life to the public good is very sweet, but
you should look at it from the asylum's point of view.

Have you no pity for those poor defenseless little orphan children?

I have, if you haven't, and I respectfully decline the position which
you offer.

I shall be charmed, however, to accept your invitation to visit you in
New York, though I must acknowledge that I am not very excited over the
list of gaieties you have planned.

Please substitute for the New York Orphanage and the Foundling Hospital
a few theaters and operas and a dinner or so. I have two new evening
gowns and a blue and gold coat with a white fur collar.

I dash to pack them; so telegraph fast if you don't wish to see me for
myself alone, but only as a successor to Mrs. Lippett. Yours as ever,

Entirely frivolous,

And intending to remain so,

SALLIE McBRIDE.


P.S. Your invitation is especially seasonable. A charming young
politician named Gordon Hallock is to be in New York next week. I am
sure you will like him when you know him better. P.S. 2. Sallie taking
her afternoon walk as Judy would like to see her:


I ask you again, have you both gone mad?


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 15.

Dear Judy:

We arrived in a snowstorm at eleven last night, Singapore and Jane and
I. It does not appear to be customary for superintendents of orphan
asylums to bring with them personal maids and Chinese chows. The night
watchman and housekeeper, who had waited up to receive me, were thrown
into an awful flutter. They had never seen the like of Sing, and thought
that I was introducing a wolf into the fold. I reassured them as to his
dogginess, and the watchman, after studying his black tongue, ventured a
witticism. He wanted to know if I fed him on huckleberry pie.

It was difficult to find accommodations for my family. Poor Sing was
dragged off whimpering to a strange woodshed, and given a piece of
burlap. Jane did not fare much better. There was not an extra bed in
the building, barring a five-foot crib in the hospital room. She, as you
know, approaches six. We tucked her in, and she spent the night folded
up like a jackknife. She has limped about today, looking like a decrepit
letter S, openly deploring this latest escapade on the part of her
flighty mistress, and longing for the time when we shall come to our
senses, and return to the parental fireside in Worcester.

I know that she is going to spoil all my chances of being popular with
the rest of the staff. Having her here is the silliest idea that was
ever conceived, but you know my family. I fought their objections step
by step, but they made their last stand on Jane. If I brought her along
to see that I ate nourishing food and didn't stay up all night, I might
come--temporarily; but if I refused to bring her--oh, dear me, I am not
sure that I was ever again to cross the threshold of Stone Gate! So here
we are, and neither of us very welcome, I am afraid.

I woke by a gong at six this morning, and lay for a time listening to
the racket that twenty-five little girls made in the lavatory over my
head. It appears that they do not get baths,--just face-washes,--but
they make as much splashing as twenty-five puppies in a pool. I rose and
dressed and explored a bit. You were wise in not having me come to look
the place over before I engaged.

While my little charges were at breakfast, it seemed a happy time
to introduce myself; so I sought the dining room. Horror piled on
horror--those bare drab walls and oil-cloth-covered tables with tin
cups and plates and wooden benches, and, by way of decoration, that one
illuminated text, "The Lord Will Provide"! The trustee who added that
last touch must possess a grim sense of humor.

Really, Judy, I never knew there was any spot in the world so
entirely ugly; and when I saw those rows and rows of pale, listless,
blue-uniformed children, the whole dismal business suddenly struck
me with such a shock that I almost collapsed. It seemed like an
unachievable goal for one person to bring sunshine to one hundred little
faces when what they need is a mother apiece.

I plunged into this thing lightly enough, partly because you were too
persuasive, and mostly, I honestly think, because that scurrilous Gordon
Hallock laughed so uproariously at the idea of my being able to manage
an asylum. Between you all you hypnotized me. And then of course, after
I began reading up on the subject and visiting all those seventeen
institutions, I got excited over orphans, and wanted to put my own ideas
into practice. But now I'm aghast at finding myself here; it's such a
stupendous undertaking. The future health and happiness of a hundred
human beings lie in my hands, to say nothing of their three or four
hundred children and thousand grandchildren. The thing's geometrically
progressive. It's awful. Who am I to undertake this job? Look, oh, look
for another superintendent!

Jane says dinner's ready. Having eaten two of your institution meals,
the thought of another doesn't excite me.

LATER.


The staff had mutton hash and spinach, with tapioca pudding for dessert.
What the children had I hate to consider.

I started to tell you about my first official speech at breakfast this
morning. It dealt with all the wonderful new changes that are to come to
the John Grier Home through the generosity of Mr. Jervis Pendleton,
the president of our board of trustees, and of Mrs. Pendleton, the dear
"Aunt Judy" of every little boy and girl here.

Please don't object to my featuring the Pendleton family so prominently.
I did it for political reasons. As the entire working staff of the
institution was present, I thought it a good opportunity to emphasize
the fact that all of these upsetting, innovations come straight from
headquarters, and not out of my excitable brain.

The children stopped eating and stared. The conspicuous color of my
hair and the frivolous tilt of my nose are evidently new attributes in a
superintendent. My colleagues also showed plainly that they consider me
too young and too inexperienced to be set in authority. I haven't seen
Jervis's wonderful Scotch doctor yet, but I assure you that he will have
to be VERY wonderful to make up for the rest of these people, especially
the kindergarten teacher. Miss Snaith and I clashed early on the subject
of fresh air; but I intend to get rid of this dreadful institution
smell, if I freeze every child into a little ice statue.

This being a sunny, sparkling, snowy afternoon, I ordered that dungeon
of a playroom closed and the children out of doors.

"She's chasin' us out," I heard one small urchin grumbling as he
struggled into a two-years-too-small overcoat.

They simply stood about the yard, all humped in their clothes, waiting
patiently to be allowed to come back in. No running or shouting or
coasting or snowballs. Think of it! These children don't know how to
play.

STILL LATER.


I have already begun the congenial task of spending your money. I bought
eleven hot-water bottles this afternoon (every one that the village drug
store contained) likewise some woolen blankets and padded quilts. And
the windows are wide open in the babies' dormitory. Those poor little
tots are going to enjoy the perfectly new sensation of being able to
breathe at night.

There are a million things I want to grumble about, but it's half-past
ten, and Jane says I MUST go to bed.

Yours in command,

SALLIE McBRIDE.

P.S. Before turning in, I tiptoed through the corridor to make sure that
all was right, and what do you think I found? Miss Snaith softly closing
the windows in the babies' dormitory! Just as soon as I can find
a suitable position for her in an old ladies' home, I am going to
discharge that woman.

Jane takes the pen from my hand.

Good night.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 20.

Dear Judy:

Dr. Robin MacRae called this afternoon to make the acquaintance of the
new superintendent. Please invite him to dinner upon the occasion of his
next visit to New York, and see for yourself what your husband has done.
Jervis grossly misrepresented the facts when he led me to believe
that one of the chief advantages of my position would be the daily
intercourse with a man of Dr. MacRae's polish and brilliancy and
scholarliness and charm.

He is tall and thinnish, with sandy hair and cold gray eyes. During the
hour he spent in my society (and I was very sprightly) no shadow of a
smile so much as lightened the straight line of his mouth. Can a shadow
lighten? Maybe not; but, anyway, what IS the matter with the man? Has he
committed some remorseful crime, or is his taciturnity due merely to his
natural Scotchness? He's as companionable as a granite tombstone!

Incidentally, our doctor didn't like me any more than I liked him. He
thinks I'm frivolous and inconsequential, and totally unfitted for this
position of trust. I dare say Jervis has had a letter from him by now
asking to have me removed.

In the matter of conversation we didn't hit it off in the least. He
discussed broadly and philosophically the evils of institutional care
for dependent children, while I lightly deplored the unbecoming coiffure
that prevails among our girls.

To prove my point, I had in Sadie Kate, my special errand orphan. Her
hair is strained back as tightly as though it had been done with a
monkey wrench, and is braided behind into two wiry little pigtails.
Decidedly, orphans' ears need to be softened. But Dr. Robin MacRae
doesn't give a hang whether their ears are becoming or not; what he
cares about is their stomachs. We also split upon the subject of
red petticoats. I don't see how any little girl can preserve any
self-respect when dressed in a red flannel petticoat an irregular inch
longer than her blue checked gingham dress; but he thinks that red
petticoats are cheerful and warm and hygienic. I foresee a warlike reign
for the new superintendent.

In regard to the doctor, there is just one detail to be thankful for: he
is almost as new as I am, and he cannot instruct me in the traditions
of the asylum. I don't believe I COULD have worked with the old doctor,
who, judging from the specimens of his art that he left behind, knew as
much about babies as a veterinary surgeon.

In the matter of asylum etiquette, the entire staff has undertaken my
education. Even the cook this morning told me firmly that the John Grier
Home has corn meal mush on Wednesday nights.

Are you searching hard for another superintendent? I'll stay until she
comes, but please find her fast.

Yours,

With my mind made up,

SALLIE McBRIDE.



SUP'T'S OFFICE,

JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 27.

Dear Gordon:

Are you still insulted because I wouldn't take your advice? Don't you
know that a reddish-haired person of Irish forebears, with a dash of
Scotch, can't be driven, but must be gently led? Had you been less
obnoxiously insistent, I should have listened sweetly, and been saved.
As it is, I frankly confess that I have spent the last five days in
repenting our quarrel. You were right, and I was wrong, and, as you
see, I handsomely acknowledge it. If I ever emerge from this present
predicament, I shall in the future be guided (almost always) by your
judgment. Could any woman make a more sweeping retraction than that?

The romantic glamour which Judy cast over this orphan asylum exists only
in her poetic imagination. The place is AWFUL. Words can't tell you
how dreary and dismal and smelly it is: long corridors, bare walls;
blue-uniformed, dough-faced little inmates that haven't the slightest
resemblance to human children. And oh, the dreadful institution smell!
A mingling of wet scrubbed floors, unaired rooms, and food for a hundred
people always steaming on the stove.

The asylum not only has to be made over, but every child as well, and
it's too herculean a task for such a selfish, luxurious, and lazy person
as Sallie McBride ever to have undertaken. I'm resigning the very first
moment that Judy can find a suitable successor, but that, I fear, will
not be immediately. She has gone off South, leaving me stranded, and of
course, after having promised, I can't simply abandon her asylum. But in
the meantime I assure you that I'm homesick.

Write me a cheering letter, and send a flower to brighten my private
drawing room. I inherited it, furnished, from Mrs. Lippett. The wall
is covered with a tapestry paper in brown and red; the furniture is
electric-blue plush, except the center table, which is gilt. Green
predominates in the carpet. If you presented some pink rosebuds, they
would complete the color scheme.

I really was obnoxious that last evening, but you are avenged.

Remorsefully yours,

SALLIE McBRIDE.

P.S. You needn't have been so grumpy about the Scotch doctor. The man is
everything dour that the word "Scotch" implies. I detest him on sight,
and he detests me. Oh, we're going to have a sweet time working together



THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 22.

My dear Gordon:

Your vigorous and expensive message is here. I know that you have plenty
of money, but that is no reason why you should waste it so frivolously.
When you feel so bursting with talk that only a hundred-word telegram
will relieve an explosion, at least turn it into a night lettergram. My
orphans can use the money if you don't need it.

Also, my dear sir, please use a trifle of common sense. Of course I
can't chuck the asylum in the casual manner you suggest. It wouldn't
be fair to Judy and Jervis. If you will pardon the statement, they have
been my friends for many more years than you, and I have no intention
of letting them go hang. I came up here in a spirit of--well, say
adventure, and I must see the venture through. You wouldn't like me if
I were a short sport. This doesn't mean, however, that I am sentencing
myself for life; I am intending to resign just as soon as the
opportunity comes. But really I ought to feel somewhat gratified that
the Pendletons were willing to trust me with such a responsible post.
Though you, my dear sir, do not suspect it, I possess considerable
executive ability, and more common sense than is visible on the surface.
If I chose to put my whole soul into this enterprise, I could make the
rippingest superintendent that any 111 orphans ever had.

I suppose you think that's funny? It's true. Judy and Jervis know it,
and that's why they asked me to come. So you see, when they have
shown so much confidence in me, I can't throw them over in quite the
unceremonious fashion you suggest. So long as I am here, I am going to
accomplish just as much as it is given one person to accomplish every
twenty-four hours. I am going to turn the place over to my successor
with things moving fast in the right direction.

But in the meantime please don't wash your hands of me under the belief
that I'm too busy to be homesick; for I'm not. I wake up every morning
and stare at Mrs. Lippett's wallpaper in a sort of daze, feeling as
though it's some bad dream, and I'm not really here. What on earth was I
thinking of to turn my back upon my nice cheerful own home and the good
times that by rights are mine? I frequently agree with your opinion of
my sanity.

But why, may I ask, should you be making such a fuss? You wouldn't be
seeing me in any case. Worcester is quite as far from Washington as the
John Grier Home. And I will add, for your further comfort, that whereas
there is no man in the neighborhood of this asylum who admires red hair,
in Worcester there are several. Therefore, most difficult of men, please
be appeased. I didn't come entirely to spite you. I wanted an adventure
in life, and, oh dear! oh dear! I'm having it! PLEASE write soon, and
cheer me up. Yours in sackcloth,

SALLIE.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 24. Dear Judy:

You tell Jervis that I am not hasty at forming judgments. I have a
sweet, sunny, unsuspicious nature, and I like everybody, almost. But no
one could like that Scotch doctor. He NEVER smiles.

He paid me another visit this afternoon. I invited him to accommodate
himself in one of Mrs. Lippett's electric-blue chairs, and then sat
down opposite to enjoy the harmony. He was dressed in a mustard-colored
homespun, with a dash of green and a glint of yellow in the weave, a
"heather mixture" calculated to add life to a dull Scotch moor. Purple
socks and a red tie, with an amethyst pin, completed the picture.
Clearly, your paragon of a doctor is not going to be of much assistance
in pulling up the esthetic tone of this establishment.

During the fifteen minutes of his call he succinctly outlined all the
changes he wishes to see accomplished in this institution. HE forsooth!
And what, may I ask, are the duties of a superintendent? Is she merely a
figurehead to take orders from the visiting physician?

It's up wi' the bonnets o' McBride and MacRae!

I am,

Indignantly yours, SALLIE.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Monday.

Dear Dr. MacRae:

I am sending this note by Sadie Kate, as it seems impossible to reach
you by telephone. Is the person who calls herself Mrs. McGur-rk and
hangs up in the middle of a sentence your housekeeper? If she answers
the telephone often, I don't see how your patients have any patience
left.

As you did not come this morning, per agreement, and the painters did
come, I was fain to choose a cheerful corn color to be placed upon the
walls of your new laboratory room. I trust there is nothing unhygienic
about corn color.

Also, if you can spare a moment this afternoon, kindly motor yourself
to Dr. Brice's on Water Street and look at the dentist's chair and
appurtenances which are to be had at half-price. If all of the pleasant
paraphernalia of his profession were here,--in a corner of your
laboratory,--Dr. Brice could finish his 111 new patients with much more
despatch than if we had to transport them separately to Water Street.
Don't you think that's a useful idea? It came to me in the middle of
the night, but as I never happened to buy a dentist's chair before, I'd
appreciate some professional advice. Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

March 1.

Dear Judy:

Do stop sending me telegrams!

Of course I know that you want to know everything that is happening, and
I would send a daily bulletin, but I truly don't find a minute. I am so
tired when night comes that if it weren't for Jane's strict discipline,
I should go to bed with my clothes on.

Later, when we slip a little more into routine, and I can be sure that
my assistants are all running off their respective jobs, I shall be the
regularest correspondent you ever had.

It was five days ago, wasn't it, that I wrote? Things have been
happening in those five days. The MacRae and I have mapped out a plan of
campaign, and are stirring up this place to its sluggish depths. I like
him less and less, but we have declared a sort of working truce. And the
man IS a worker. I always thought I had sufficient energy myself, but
when an improvement is to be introduced, I toil along panting in his
wake. He is as stubborn and tenacious and bull-doggish as a Scotchman
can be, but he does understand babies; that is, he understands their
physiological aspects. He hasn't any more feeling for them personally
than for so many frogs that he might happen to be dissecting.

Do you remember Jervis's holding forth one evening for an hour or so
about our doctor's beautiful humanitarian ideals? C'EST A RIRE! The man
merely regards the J. G. H. as his own private laboratory, where he
can try out scientific experiments with no loving parents to object.
I shouldn't be surprised anyday to find him introducing scarlet fever
cultures into the babies' porridge in order to test a newly invented
serum.

Of the house staff, the only two who strike me as really efficient are
the primary teacher and the furnace-man. You should see how the children
run to meet Miss Matthews and beg for caresses, and how painstakingly
polite they are to the other teachers. Children are quick to size up
character. I shall be very embarrassed if they are too polite to me.

Just as soon as I get my bearings a little, and know exactly what we
need, I am going to accomplish some widespread discharging. I should
like to begin with Miss Snaith; but I discover that she is the niece
of one of our most generous trustees, and isn't exactly dischargeable.
She's a vague, chinless, pale-eyed creature, who talks through her nose
and breathes through her mouth. She can't say anything decisively and
then stop; her sentences all trail off into incoherent murmurings. Every
time I see the woman I feel an almost uncontrollable desire to take her
by the shoulders and shake some decision into her. And Miss Snaith is
the one who has had entire supervision of the seventeen little tots aged
from two to five! But, anyway, even if I can't discharge her, I have
reduced her to a subordinate position without her being aware of the
fact.

The doctor has found for me a charming girl who lives a few miles from
here and comes in every day to manage the kindergarten. She has big,
gentle, brown eyes, like a cow's, and motherly manners (she is just
nineteen), and the babies love her.

At the head of the nursery I have placed a jolly, comfortable
middle-aged woman who has reared five of her own and has a hand with
bairns. Our doctor also found her. You see, he is useful. She is
technically under Miss Snaith, but is usurping dictatorship in a
satisfactory fashion. I can now sleep at night without being afraid that
my babies are being inefficiently murdered.

You see, our reforms are getting started; and while I acquiesce with
all the intelligence at my command to our doctor's basic scientific
upheavals, still, they sometimes leave me cold. The problem that keeps
churning and churning in my mind is: How can I ever instil enough love
and warmth and sunshine into those bleak little lives? And I am not sure
that the doctor's science will accomplish that.

One of our most pressing INTELLIGENT needs just now is to get our
records into coherent form. The books have been most outrageously
unkept. Mrs. Lippett had a big black account book into which she jumbled
any facts that happened to drift her way as to the children's family,
their conduct, and their health. But for weeks at a time she didn't
trouble to make an entry. If any adopting family wants to know a child's
parentage, half the time we can't even tell where we got the child!

     "Where did you come from, baby dear?"
     "The blue sky opened, and I am here,"

is an exact description of their arrival.

We need a field worker to travel about the country and pick up all
the hereditary statistics she can about our chicks. It will be an easy
matter, as most of them have relatives. What do you think of Janet Ware
for the job? You remember what a shark she was in economics; she simply
battened on tables and charts and surveys.

I have also to inform you that the John Grier Home is undergoing a very
searching physical examination, and it is the shocking truth that out
of the twenty-eight poor little rats so far examined only five are up to
specification. And the five have not been here long.

Do you remember the ugly green reception room on the first floor? I have
removed as much of its greenness as possible, and fitted it up as the
doctor's laboratory. It contains scales and drugs and, most professional
touch of all, a dentist's chair and one of those sweet grinding
machines. (Bought them second-hand from Doctor Brice in the village, who
is putting in, for the gratification of his own patients, white enamel
and nickel-plate.) That drilling machine is looked upon as an infernal
engine, and I as an infernal monster for instituting it. But every
little victim who is discharged FILLED may come to my room every day for
a week and receive two pieces of chocolate. Though our children are not
conspicuously brave, they are, we discover, fighters. Young Thomas Kehoe
nearly bit the doctor's thumb in two after kicking over a tableful of
instruments. It requires physical strength as well as skill to be dental
adviser to the J. G. H. . . . . . . . . . .

Interrupted here to show a benevolent lady over the institution. She
asked fifty irrelevant questions, took up an hour of my time, then
finally wiped away a tear and left a dollar for my "poor little
charges."

So far, my poor little charges are not enthusiastic about these new
reforms. They don't care much for the sudden draft of fresh air that has
blown in upon them, or the deluge of water. I am shoving in two baths
a week, and as soon as we collect tubs enough and a few extra faucets,
they are going to get SEVEN.

But at least I have started one most popular reform. Our daily bill
of fare has been increased, a change deplored by the cook as causing
trouble, and deplored by the rest of the staff as causing an immoral
increase in expense. ECONOMY spelt in capitals has been the guiding
principle of this institution for so many years that it has become a
religion. I assure my timid co-workers twenty times a day that, owing to
the generosity of our president, the endowment has been exactly doubled,
and that I have vast sums besides from Mrs. Pendleton for necessary
purposes like ice cream. But they simply CAN'T get over the feeling that
it is a wicked extravagance to feed these children.

The doctor and I have been studying with care the menus of the past, and
we are filled with amazement at the mind that could have devised them.
Here is one of her frequently recurring dinners:

        Boiled potatoes
        Boiled rice
        Blanc mange


It's a wonder to me that the children are anything more than one hundred
and eleven little lumps of starch.

Looking about this institution, one is moved to misquote Robert
Browning.

     "There may be heaven; there must be hell;
     Meantime, there is the John Grier--well!"
S. McB.



THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Saturday.

Dear Judy:

Dr. Robin MacRae and I fought another battle yesterday over a very
trivial matter (in which I was right), and since then I have adopted for
our doctor a special pet name. "Good morning, Enemy!" was my greeting
today, at which he was quite solemnly annoyed. He says he does not wish
to be regarded as an enemy. He is not in the least antagonistic--so long
as I mold my policy upon his wishes!

We have two new children, Isador Gutschneider and Max Yog, given to us
by the Baptist Ladies' Aid Society. Where on earth do you suppose those
children picked up such a religion? I didn't want to take them, but the
poor ladies were very persuasive, and they pay the princely sum of four
dollars and fifty cents per week per child. This makes 113, which makes
us very crowded. I have half a dozen babies to give away. Find me some
kind families who want to adopt.

You know it's very embarrassing not to be able to remember offhand how
large your family is, but mine seems to vary from day to day, like the
stock market. I should like to keep it at about par. When a woman
has more than a hundred children, she can't give them the individual
attention they ought to have.


Monday.


This letter has been lying two days on my desk, and I haven't found the
time to stick on a stamp. But now I seem to have a free evening ahead,
so I will add a page or two more before starting it on a pleasant
journey to Florida.

I am just beginning to pick out individual faces among the children.
It seemed at first as though I could never learn them, they looked so
hopelessly cut out of one pattern, with those unspeakably ugly uniforms.
Now please don't write back that you want the children put into new
clothes immediately. I know you do; you've already told me five times.
In about a month I shall be ready to consider the question, but just now
their insides are more important than their outsides.

There is no doubt about it--orphans in the mass do not appeal to me. I
am beginning to be afraid that this famous mother instinct which we hear
so much about was left out of my character. Children as children are
dirty, spitty little things, and their noses all need wiping. Here
and there I pick out a naughty, mischievous little one that awakens a
flicker of interest; but for the most part they are just a composite
blur of white face and blue check.

With one exception, though. Sadie Kate Kilcoyne emerged from the mass
the first day, and bids fair to stay out for all time. She is my special
little errand girl, and she furnishes me with all my daily amusement.
No piece of mischief has been launched in this institution for the last
eight years that did not originate in her abnormal brain. This young
person has, to me, a most unusual history, though I understand it's
common enough in foundling circles. She was discovered eleven years
ago on the bottom step of a Thirty-ninth Street house, asleep in a
pasteboard box labeled, "Altman & Co."

"Sadie Kate Kilcoyne, aged five weeks. Be kind to her," was neatly
printed on the cover.

The policeman who picked her up took her to Bellevue where the
foundlings are pronounced, in the order of their arrival, "Catholic,
Protestant, Catholic, Protestant," with perfect impartiality. Our Sadie
Kate, despite her name and blue Irish eyes, was made a Protestant. And
here she is growing Irisher and Irisher every day, but, true to her
christening, protesting loudly against every detail of life.

Her two little black braids point in opposite directions; her little
monkey face is all screwed up with mischief; she is as active as a
terrier, and you have to keep her busy every moment. Her record of
badnesses occupies pages in the Doomsday Book. The last item reads:

"For stumping Maggie Geer to get a doorknob into her mouth--punishment,
the afternoon spent in bed, and crackers for supper."

It seems that Maggie Geer, fitted with a mouth of unusual stretching
capacity, got the doorknob in, but couldn't get it out. The doctor
was called, and cannily solved the problem with a buttered shoe-horn.
"Muckle-mouthed Meg," he has dubbed the patient ever since.

You can understand that my thoughts are anxiously occupied in filling
every crevice of Sadie Kate's existence.

There are a million subjects that I ought to consult with the president
about. I think it was very unkind of you and him to saddle me with your
orphan asylum and run off South to play. It would serve you right if I
did everything wrong. While you are traveling about in private cars, and
strolling in the moonlight on palm beaches, please think of me in the
drizzle of a New York March, taking care of 113 babies that by rights
are yours--and be grateful.

I remain (for a limited time),

S. McBRIDE.


SUP'T JOHN GRIER HOME.

Dear Enemy:

I am sending herewith (under separate cover) Sammy Speir, who got
mislaid when you paid your morning visit. Miss Snaith brought him to
light after you had gone. Please scrutinize his thumb. I never saw a
felon, but I have diagnosed it as such. Yours truly, S. McBRIDE.


SUP'T JOHN GRIER HOME,

March 6.

Dear Judy:

I don't know yet whether the children are going to love me or not, but
they DO love my dog. No creature so popular as Singapore ever entered
these gates. Every afternoon three boys who have been perfect in
deportment are allowed to brush and comb him, while three other good
boys may serve him with food and drink. But every Saturday morning the
climax of the week is reached, when three superlatively good boys give
him a nice lathery bath with hot water and flea soap. The privilege of
serving as Singapore's valet is going to be the only incentive I shall
need for maintaining discipline.

But isn't it pathetically unnatural for these youngsters to be living
in the country and never owning a pet? Especially when they, of all
children, do so need something to love. I am going to manage pets for
them somehow, if I have to spend our new endowment for a menagerie.
Couldn't you bring back some baby alligators and a pelican? Anything
alive will be gratefully received.

This should by rights be my first "Trustees' Day." I am deeply grateful
to Jervis for arranging a simple business meeting in New York, as we
are not yet on dress parade up here; but we are hoping by the first
Wednesday in April to have something visible to show. If all of the
doctor's ideas, and a few of my own, get themselves materialized, our
trustees will open their eyes a bit when we show them about.

I have just made out a chart for next week's meals, and posted it in the
kitchen in the sight of an aggrieved cook. Variety is a word hitherto
not found in the lexicon of the J.G.H. You would never dream all of
the delightful surprises we are going to have: brown bread, corn pone,
graham muffins, samp, rice pudding with LOTS of raisins, thick vegetable
soup, macaroni Italian fashion, polenta cakes with molasses, apple
dumplings, gingerbread--oh, an endless list! After our biggest girls
have assisted in the manufacture of such appetizing dainties, they will
almost be capable of keeping future husbands in love with them.

Oh, dear me! Here I am babbling these silly nothings when I have some
real news up my sleeve. We have a new worker, a gem of a worker.

Do you remember Betsy Kindred, 1910? She led the glee club and was
president of dramatics. I remember her perfectly; she always had lovely
clothes. Well, if you please, she lives only twelve miles from here. I
ran across her by chance yesterday morning as she was motoring through
the village; or, rather, she just escaped running across me.

I never spoke to her in my life, but we greeted each other like the
oldest friends. It pays to have conspicuous hair; she recognized me
instantly. I hopped upon the running board of her car and said:

"Betsy Kindred, 1910, you've got to come back to my orphan asylum and
help me catalogue my orphans."

And it astonished her so that she came. She's to be here four or five
days a week as temporary secretary, and somehow I must manage to keep
her permanently. She's the most useful person I ever saw. I am hoping
that orphans will become such a habit with her that she won't be able to
give them up. I think she might stay if we pay her a big enough salary.
She likes to be independent of her family, as do all of us in these
degenerate times.

In my growing zeal for cataloguing people, I should like to get our
doctor tabulated. If Jervis knows any gossip about him, write it to me,
please; the worse, the better. He called yesterday to lance a felon on
Sammy Speir's thumb, then ascended to my electric-blue parlor to
give instructions as to the dressing of thumbs. The duties of a
superintendent are manifold.

It was just teatime, so I casually asked him to stay, and he did! Not
for the pleasure of my society,--no, indeed,--but because Jane appeared
at the moment with a plate of toasted muffins. He hadn't had any
luncheon, it seems, and dinner was a long way ahead. Between muffins
(he ate the whole plateful) he saw fit to interrogate me as to my
preparedness for this position. Had I studied biology in college? How
far had I gone in chemistry? What did I know of sociology? Had I visited
that model institution at Hastings?

To all of which I responded affably and openly. Then I permitted myself
a question or two: just what sort of youthful training had been required
to produce such a model of logic, accuracy, dignity, and common sense
as I saw sitting before me? Through persistent prodding I elicited a
few forlorn facts, but all quite respectable. You'd think, from his
reticence, there'd been a hanging in the family. The MacRae PERE was
born in Scotland, and came to the States to occupy a chair at Johns
Hopkins; son Robin was shipped back to Auld Reekie for his education.
His grandmother was a M'Lachlan of Strathlachan (I am sure she sounds
respectable), and his vacations were spent in the Hielands a-chasing the
deer.

So much could I gather; so much, and no more. Tell me, I beg, some
gossip about my enemy--something scandalous by preference.

Why, if he is such an awfully efficient person does he bury himself in
this remote locality? You would think an up-and-coming scientific man
would want a hospital at one elbow and a morgue at the other. Are you
sure that he didn't commit a crime and isn't hiding from the law?

I seem to have covered a lot of paper without telling you much. VIVE LA
BAGATELLE! Yours as usual,

SALLIE.

P.S. I am relieved on one point. Dr. MacRae does not pick out his own
clothes. He leaves all such unessential trifles to his housekeeper, Mrs.
Maggie McGurk.

Again, and irrevocably, good-by!



THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Wednesday.

Dear Gordon:

Your roses and your letter cheered me for an entire morning, and it's
the first time I've approached cheerfulness since the fourteenth of
February, when I waved good-by to Worcester.

Words can't tell you how monotonously oppressive the daily round of
institution life gets to be. The only glimmer in the whole dull affair
is the fact that Betsy Kindred spends four days a week with us. Betsy
and I were in college together, and we do occasionally find something
funny to laugh about.

Yesterday we were having tea in my HIDEOUS parlor when we suddenly
determined to revolt against so much unnecessary ugliness. We called in
six sturdy and destructive orphans, a step-ladder, and a bucket of hot
water, and in two hours had every vestige of that tapestry paper off
those walls. You can't imagine what fun it is ripping paper off walls.

Two paperhangers are at work this moment hanging the best that our
village affords, while a German upholsterer is on his knees measuring my
chairs for chintz slip covers that will hide every inch of their plush
upholstery.

Please don't get nervous. This doesn't mean that I'm preparing to spend
my life in the asylum. It means only that I'm preparing a cheerful
welcome for my successor. I haven't dared tell Judy how dismal I find
it, because I don't want to cloud Florida; but when she returns to New
York she will find my official resignation waiting to meet her in the
front hall.

I would write you a long letter in grateful payment for seven pages, but
two of my little dears are holding a fight under the window. I dash to
separate them.

Yours as ever,

S. McB.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

March 8.

My dear Judy:

I myself have bestowed a little present upon the John Grier Home--the
refurnishing of the superintendent's private parlor. I saw the first
night here that neither I nor any future occupant could be happy
with Mrs. Lippett's electric plush. You see, I am planning to make my
successor contented and willing to stay.

Betsy Kindred assisted in the rehabilitation of the Lippett's chamber
of horrors, and between us we have created a symphony in dull blue and
gold. Really and truly, it's one of the loveliest rooms you've ever
seen. The sight of it will be an artistic education to any orphan.
New paper on the wall, new rugs on the floor (my own prized Persians
expressed from Worcester by an expostulating family). New casement
curtains at my three windows, revealing a wide and charming view,
hitherto hidden by Nottingham lace. A new big table, some lamps and
books and a picture or so, and a real open fire. She had closed the
fireplace because it let in air.

I never realized what a difference artistic surroundings make in the
peace of one's soul. I sat last night and watched my fire throw nice
highlights on my new old fender, and purred with contentment. And I
assure you it's the first purr that has come from this cat since she
entered the gates of the John Grier Home.

But the refurnishing of the superintendent's parlor is the slightest
of our needs. The children's private apartments demand so much basic
attention that I can't decide where to begin. That dark north playroom
is a shocking scandal, but no more shocking than our hideous dining room
or our unventilated dormitories or our tubless lavatories.

If the institution is very saving, do you think it can ever afford to
burn down this smelly old original building, and put up instead some
nice, ventilated modern cottages? I cannot contemplate that wonderful
institution at Hastings without being filled with envy. It would be some
fun to run an asylum if you had a plant like that to work with. But,
anyway, when you get back to New York and are ready to consult the
architect about remodeling, please apply to me for suggestions. Among
other little details I want two hundred feet of sleeping porch running
along the outside of our dormitories.

You see, it's this way: our physical examination reveals the fact that
about half of our children are aenemic--aneamic--anaemic (Mercy! what
a word!), and a lot of them have tubercular ancestors, and more have
alcoholic. Their first need is oxygen rather than education. And if the
sickly ones need it, why wouldn't it be good for the well ones? I should
like to have every child, winter and summer, sleeping in the open air;
but I know that if I let fall such a bomb on the board of trustees, the
whole body would explode.

Speaking of trustees, I have met up with the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff, and
I really believe that I dislike him more than Dr. Robin MacRae or
the kindergarten teacher or the cook. I seem to have a genius for
discovering enemies!

Mr. Wykoff called on Wednesday last to look over the new superintendent.

Having lowered himself into my most comfortable armchair, he proceeded
to spend the day. He asked my father's business, and whether or not he
was well-to-do. I told him that my father manufactured overalls, and
that, even in these hard times, the demand for overalls was pretty
steady.

He seemed relieved. He approves of the utilitarian aspect of overalls.
He had been afraid that I had come from the family of a minister or
professor or writer, a lot of high thinking and no common sense. Cyrus
believes in common sense.

And what had been my training for this position?

That, as you know, is a slightly embarrassing question. But I produced
my college education and a few lectures at the School of Philanthropy,
also a short residence in the college settlement (I didn't tell him
that all I had done there was to paint the back hall and stairs). Then
I submitted some social work among my father's employees and a few
friendly visits to the Home for Female Inebriates.

To all of which he grunted.

I added that I had lately made a study of the care of dependent
children, and casually mentioned my seventeen institutions.

He grunted again, and said he didn't take much stock in this new-fangled
scientific charity.

At this point Jane entered with a box of roses from the florist's.
That blessed Gordon Hallock sends me roses twice a week to brighten the
rigors of institution life.

Our trustee began an indignant investigation. He wished to know where I
got those flowers, and was visibly relieved when he learned that I had
not spent the institution's money for them. He next wished to know who
Jane might be. I had foreseen that question and decided to brazen it
out.

"My maid," said I.

"Your what?" he bellowed, quite red in the face.

"My maid."

"What is she doing here?"

I amiably went into details. "She mends my clothes, blacks my boots,
keeps my bureau drawers in order, washes my hair."

I really thought the man would choke, so I charitably added that I paid
her wages out of my own private income, and paid five dollars and fifty
cents a week to the institution for her board; and that, though she was
big, she didn't eat much.

He allowed that I might make use of one of the orphans for all
legitimate service.

I explained--still polite, but growing bored--that Jane had been in my
service for many years, and was indispensable.

He finally took himself off, after telling me that he, for one,
had never found any fault with Mrs. Lippett. She was a common-sense
Christian woman, without many fancy ideas, but with plenty of good solid
work in her. He hoped that I would be wise enough to model my policy
upon hers!

And what, my dear Judy, do you think of that?

The doctor dropped in a few minutes later, and I repeated the Hon.
Cyrus's conversation in detail. For the first time in the history of our
intercourse the doctor and I agreed.

"Mrs. Lippett indeed!" he growled. "The blethering auld gomerel! May the
Lord send him mair sense!"

When our doctor really becomes aroused, he drops into Scotch. My latest
pet name for him (behind his back) is Sandy.

Sadie Kate is sitting on the floor as I write, untangling sewing-silks
and winding them neatly for Jane, who is becoming quite attached to the
little imp.

"I am writing to your Aunt Judy," say I to Sadie Kate. "What message
shall I send from you?"

"I never heard of no Aunt Judy."

"She is the aunt of every good little girl in this school."

"Tell her to come and visit me and bring some candy," says Sadie Kate.

I say so, too.

My love to the president,

SALLIE.



March 13.

MRS. JUDY ABBOTT PENDLETON,

Dear Madam:

Your four letters, two telegrams, and three checks are at hand, and
your instructions shall be obeyed just as quickly as this overworked
superintendent can manage it.

I delegated the dining room job to Betsy Kindred. One hundred dollars
did I allow her for the rehabilitation of that dreary apartment. She
accepted the trust, picked out five likely orphans to assist in the
mechanical details, and closed the door.

For three days the children have been eating from the desks in the
schoolroom. I haven't an idea what Betsy is doing; but she has a lot
better taste than I, so there isn't much use in interfering.

It is such a heaven-sent relief to be able to leave something to
somebody else, and be sure it will be carried out! With all due respect
to the age and experience of the staff I found here, they are not very
open to new ideas. As the John Grier Home was planned by its noble
founder in 1875, so shall it be run today.

Incidentally, my dear Judy, your idea of a private dining room for the
superintendent, which I, being a social soul, at first scorned, has
been my salvation. When I am dead tired I dine alone, but in my live
intervals I invite an officer to share the meal; and in the expansive
intimacy of the dinner-table I get in my most effective strokes. When it
becomes desirable to plant the seeds of fresh air in the soul of Miss
Snaith, I invite her to dinner, and tactfully sandwich in a little
oxygen between her slices of pressed veal.

Pressed veal is our cook's idea of an acceptable PIECE DE RESISTANCE
for a dinner party. In another month I am going to face the subject of
suitable nourishment for the executive staff.

Meanwhile there are so many things more important than our own comfort
that we shall have to worry along on veal.

A terrible bumping has just occurred outside my door. One little cherub
seems to be kicking another little cherub downstairs. But I write on
undisturbed. If I am to spend my days among orphans, I must cultivate a
cheerful detachment.

Did you get Leonora Fenton's cards? She's marrying a medical missionary
and going to Siam to live! Did you ever hear of anything so absurd as
Leonora presiding over a missionary's menage? Do you suppose she will
entertain the heathen with skirt dances?

It isn't any absurder, though, than me in an orphan asylum, or you as a
conservative settled matron, or Marty Keene a social butterfly in Paris.
Do you suppose she goes to embassy balls in riding clothes, and what on
earth does she do about hair? It couldn't have grown so soon; she must
wear a wig. Isn't our class turning out some hilarious surprises?

The mail arrives. Excuse me while I read a nice fat letter from
Washington.


Not so nice; quite impertinent. Gordon can't get over the idea that it
is a joke, S. McB. in conjunction with one hundred and thirteen orphans.
But he wouldn't think it such a joke if he could try it for a few days.
He says he is going to drop off here on his next trip North and watch
the struggle. How would it be if I left him in charge while I dashed to
New York to accomplish some shopping? Our sheets are all worn out, and
we haven't more than two hundred and eleven blankets in the house.

Singapore, sole puppy of my heart and home, sends his respectful love. I
also, S. McB.




THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Friday. My dearest Judy:

You should see what your hundred dollars and Betsy Kindred did to that
dining room!

It's a dazzling dream of yellow paint. Being a north room, she thought
to brighten it; and she has. The walls are kalsomined buff, with a
frieze of little molly cottontails skurrying around the top. All of
the woodwork--tables and benches included--is a cheerful chrome yellow.
Instead of tablecloths, which we can't afford, we have linen runners,
with stenciled rabbits hopping along their length. Also yellow bowls,
filled at present with pussywillows, but looking forward to dandelions
and cowslips and buttercups. And new dishes, my dear--white, with yellow
jonquils (we think), though they may be roses; there is no botany expert
in the house. Most wonderful touch of all, we have NAPKINS, the first
we have seen in our whole lives. The children thought they were
handkerchiefs and ecstatically wiped their noses.

To honor the opening of the new room, we had ice-cream and cake for
dessert. It is such a pleasure to see these children anything but cowed
and apathetic, that I am offering prizes for boisterousness--to every
one but Sadie Kate. She drummed on the table with her knife and fork and
sang, "Welcome to dem golden halls."

You remember that illuminated text over the dining-room door--"The Lord
Will Provide." We've painted it out, and covered the spot with rabbits.
It's all very well to teach so easy a belief to normal children, who
have a proper family and roof behind them; but a person whose only
refuge in distress will be a park bench must learn a more militant creed
than that.

"The Lord has given you two hands and a brain and a big world to use
them in. Use them well, and you will be provided for; use them ill, and
you will want," is our motto, and that with reservations.

In the sorting process that has been going on I have got rid of eleven
children. That blessed State Charities Aid Association helped me dispose
of three little girls, all placed in very nice homes, and one to be
adopted legally if the family likes her. And the family will like her;
I saw to that. She was the prize child of the institution, obedient and
polite, with curly hair and affectionate ways, exactly the little girl
that every family needs. When a couple of adopting parents are choosing
a daughter, I stand by with my heart in my mouth, feeling as though I
were assisting in the inscrutable designs of Fate. Such a little thing
turns the balance! The child smiles, and a loving home is hers for life;
she sneezes, and it passes her by forever.

Three of our biggest boys have gone to work on farms, one of them out
West to a RANCH! Report has it that he is to become a cowboy and Indian
fighter and grizzly-bear hunter, though I believe in reality he is to
engage in the pastoral work of harvesting wheat. He marched off, a hero
of romance, followed by the wistful eyes of twenty-five adventurous
lads, who turned back with a sigh to the safely monotonous life of the
J. G. H.

Five other children have been sent to their proper institutions. One of
them is deaf, one an epileptic, and the other three approaching
idiocy. None of them ought ever to have been accepted here. This as an
educational institution, and we can't waste our valuable plant in caring
for defectives.

Orphan asylums have gone out of style. What I am going to develop is a
boarding school for the physical, moral, and mental growth of children
whose parents have not been able to provide for their care.

"Orphans" is merely my generic term for the children; a good many
of them are not orphans in the least. They have one troublesome and
tenacious parent left who won't sign a surrender, so I can't place them
out for adoption. But those that are available would be far better off
in loving foster-homes than in the best institution that I can ever
make. So I am fitting them for adoption as quickly as possible, and
searching for the homes.

You ought to run across a lot of pleasant families in your travels;
can't you bully some of them into adopting children? Boys by preference.
We've got an awful lot of extra boys, and nobody wants them. Talk about
anti-feminism! It's nothing to the anti-masculinism that exists in the
breasts of adopting parents. I could place out a thousand dimpled little
girls with yellow hair, but a good live boy from nine to thirteen is a
drug on the market. There seems to be a general feeling that they track
in dirt and scratch up mahogany furniture.

Shouldn't you think that men's clubs might like to adopt boys, as a sort
of mascot? The boy could be boarded in a nice respectable family, and
drawn out by the different members on Saturday afternoons. They could
take him to ball games and the circus, and then return him when they
had had enough, just as you do with a library book. It would be very
valuable training for the bachelors. People are forever talking about
the desirability of training girls for motherhood. Why not institute a
course of training in fatherhood, and get the best men's clubs to take
it up? Will you please have Jervis agitate the matter at his various
clubs, and I'll have Gordon start the idea in Washington. They both
belong to such a lot of clubs that we ought to dispose of at least a
dozen boys.

I remain,

The ever-distracted mother of 113.

S. McB.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

March 18.

Dear Judy:

I have been having a pleasant respite from the 113 cares of motherhood.

Yesterday who should drop down upon our peaceful village but Mr. Gordon
Hallock, on his way back to Washington to resume the cares of the
nation. At least he said it was on his way, but I notice from the map in
the primary room that it was one hundred miles out of his way.

And dear, but I was glad to see him! He is the first glimpse of the
outside world I have had since I was incarcerated in this asylum. And
such a lot of entertaining businesses he had to talk about! He knows the
inside of all the outside things you read in the newspapers; so far as I
can make out, he is the social center about which Washington revolves.
I always knew he would get on in politics, for he has a way with him;
there's no doubt about it.

You can't imagine how exhilarated and set-up I feel, as though I'd come
into my own again after a period of social ostracism. I must confess
that I get lonely for some one who talks my kind of nonsensical talk.
Betsy trots off home every week end, and the doctor is conversational
enough, but, oh, so horribly logical! Gordon somehow seems to stand for
the life I belong to,--of country clubs and motors and dancing and sport
and politeness,--a poor, foolish, silly life, if you will, but mine own.
And I have missed it. This serving society business is theoretically
admirable and compelling and interesting, but deadly stupid in its
working details. I am afraid I was never born to set the crooked
straight.

I tried to show Gordon about and make him take an interest in the
babies, but he wouldn't glance at them. He thinks I came just to spite
him, which, of course, I did. Your siren call would never have lured me
from the path of frivolity had Gordon not been so unpleasantly hilarious
at the idea of my being able to manage an orphan asylum. I came here to
show him that I could; and now, when I can show him, the beast refuses
to look.

I invited him to dinner, with a warning about the pressed veal; but he
said no, thanks, that I needed a change. So we went to Brantwood Inn and
had broiled lobster. I had positively forgotten that the creatures were
edible.

This morning at seven o'clock I was wakened by the furious ringing of
the telephone bell. It was Gordon at the station, about to resume his
journey to Washington. He was in quite a contrite mood about the asylum,
and apologized largely for refusing to look at my children. It was not
that he didn't like orphans, he said; it was just that he didn't like
them in juxtaposition to me. And to prove his good intentions, he would
send them a bag of peanuts.

I feel as fresh and revivified after my little fling as though I'd had a
real vacation. There's no doubt about it, an hour or so of exciting talk
is more of a tonic to me than a pint of iron and strychnine pills.

You owe me two letters, dear Madam. Pay them TOUT DE SUITE, or I lay
down my pen forever.

Yours, as usual,

S. McB.


Tuesday, 5 P.M. My dear Enemy:

I am told that during my absence this afternoon you paid us a call and
dug up a scandal. You claim that the children under Miss Snaith are not
receiving their due in the matter of cod-liver oil.

I am sorry if your medicinal orders have not been carried out, but you
must know that it is a difficult matter to introduce that abominably
smelling stuff into the inside of a squirming child. And poor Miss
Snaith is a very much overworked person. She has ten more children to
care for than should rightly fall into the lot of any single woman, and
until we find her another assistant, she has very little time for the
fancy touches you demand.

Also, my dear Enemy, she is very susceptible to abuse. When you feel in
a fighting mood, I wish you would expend your belligerence upon me. I
don't mind it; quite the contrary. But that poor lady has retired to her
room in a state of hysterics, leaving nine babies to be tucked into bed
by whomever it may concern.

If you have any powders that would be settling to her nerves, please
send them back by Sadie Kate.

Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.


Wednesday Morning.

Dear Dr. MacRae:

I am not taking an unintelligent stand in the least; I am simply asking
that you come to me with all complaints, and not stir up my staff in any
such volcanic fashion as that of yesterday.

I endeavor to carry out all of your orders--of a medical nature--with
scrupulous care. In the present case there seems to have been
some negligence; I don't know what did become of those fourteen
unadministered bottles of cod-liver oil that you have made such a fuss
about, but I shall investigate.

And I cannot, for various reasons, pack off Miss Snaith in the summary
fashion you demand. She may be, in certain respects, inefficient;
but she is kind to the children, and with supervision will answer
temporarily.

Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.


Thursday.

Dear Enemy:

SOYEZ TRANQUILLE. I have issued orders, and in the future the children
shall receive all of the cod-liver oil that by rights is theirs. A
wilfu' man maun hae his way.

S. McB.


March 22.

Dear Judy:

Asylum life has looked up a trifle during the past few days--since the
great Cod-Liver Oil War has been raging. The first skirmish occurred on
Tuesday, and I unfortunately missed it, having accompanied four of
my children on a shopping trip to the village. I returned to find the
asylum teeming with hysterics. Our explosive doctor had paid us a visit.

Sandy has two passions in life: one is for cod-liver oil and the other
for spinach, neither popular in our nursery. Some time ago--before I
came, in fact--he had ordered cod-liver oil for all of the
{aenemic} --Heavens! there's that word again! {aneamic}--children, and
had given instructions as to its application to Miss Snaith. Yesterday,
in his suspicious Scotch fashion, he began nosing about to find out why
the poor little rats weren't fattening up as fast as he thought they
ought, and he unearthed a hideous scandal. They haven't received a whiff
of cod-liver oil for three whole weeks! At that point he exploded, and
all was joy and excitement and hysterics.

Betsy says that she had to send Sadie Kate to the laundry on an
improvised errand, as his language was not fit for orphan ears. By the
time I got home he had gone, and Miss Snaith had retired, weeping, to
her room, and the whereabouts of fourteen bottles of cod-liver oil was
still unexplained. He had accused her at the top of his voice of taking
them herself. Imagine Miss Snaith,--she who looks so innocent and
chinless and inoffensive--stealing cod-liver oil from these poor
helpless little orphans and guzzling it in private!

Her defense consisted in hysterical assertions that she loved the
children, and had done her duty as she saw it. She did not believe in
giving medicine to babies; she thought drugs bad for their poor little
stomachs. You can imagine Sandy! Oh, dear! oh, dear! To think I missed
it!

Well, the tempest raged for three days, and Sadie Kate nearly ran her
little legs off carrying peppery messages back and forth between us
and the doctor. It is only under stress that I communicate with him by
telephone, as he has an interfering old termagant of a housekeeper who
"listens in" on the down-stairs switch. I don't wish the scandalous
secrets of the John Grier spread abroad. The doctor demanded Miss
Snaith's instant dismissal, and I refused. Of course she is a vague,
unfocused, inefficient old thing, but she does love the children, and
with proper supervision is fairly useful.

At least, in the light of her exalted family connections, I can't
pack her off in disgrace like a drunken cook. I am hoping in time to
eliminate her by a process of delicate suggestion; perhaps I can make
her feel that her health requires a winter in California. And also, no
matter what the doctor wants, so positive and dictatorial is his manner
that just out of self-respect one must take the other side. When he
states that the world is round, I instantly assert it to be triangular.

Finally, after three pleasantly exhilarating days, the whole business
settled itself. An apology (a very dilute one) was extracted from him
for being so unkind to the poor lady, and full confession, with promises
for the future, was drawn from her. It seems that she couldn't bear
to make the little dears take the stuff, but, for obvious reasons, she
couldn't bear to cross Dr. MacRae, so she hid the last fourteen bottles
in a dark corner of the cellar. Just how she was planning to dispose of
her loot I don't know. Can you pawn cod-liver oil?

LATER.


Peace negotiations had just ended this afternoon, and Sandy had made a
dignified exit, when the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff was announced. Two enemies in
the course of an hour are really too much!

The Hon. Cy was awfully impressed with the new dining room, especially
when he heard that Betsy had put on those rabbits with her own
lily-white hands. Stenciling rabbits on walls, he allows, is a fitting
pursuit for a woman, but an executive position like mine is a trifle out
of her sphere. He thinks it would be far wiser if Mr. Pendleton did not
give me such free scope in the spending of his money.

While we were still contemplating Betsy's mural flight, an awful crash
came from the pantry, and we found Gladiola Murphy weeping among the
ruins of five yellow plates. It is sufficiently shattering to my nerves
to hear these crashes when I am alone, but it is peculiarly shattering
when receiving a call from an unsympathetic trustee.

I shall cherish that set of dishes to the best of my ability, but if you
wish to see your gift in all its uncracked beauty, I should advise you
to hurry North, and visit the John Grier Home without delay.

Yours as ever,

SALLIE.


March 26. My dear Judy:

I have just been holding an interview with a woman who wants to take
a baby home to surprise her husband. I had a hard time convincing her
that, since he is to support the child, it might be a delicate attention
to consult him about its adoption. She argued stubbornly that it was
none of his business, seeing that the onerous work of washing and
dressing and training would fall upon her. I am really beginning to feel
sorry for men. Some of them seem to have very few rights.

Even our pugnacious doctor I suspect of being a victim of domestic
tyranny, and his housekeeper's at that. It is scandalous the way Maggie
McGurk neglects the poor man. I have had to put him in charge of an
orphan. Sadie Kate, with a very housewifely air, is this moment sitting
cross-legged on the hearth rug sewing buttons on his overcoat while he
is upstairs tending babies.

You would never believe it, but Sandy and I are growing quite
confidential in a dour Scotch fashion. It has become his habit, when
homeward bound after his professional calls, to chug up to our door
about four in the afternoon, and make the rounds of the house to
make sure that we are not developing cholera morbus or infanticide or
anything catching, and then present himself at four-thirty at my library
door to talk over our mutual problems.

Does he come to see me? Oh, no, indeed; he comes to get tea and toast
and marmalade. The man hath a lean and hungry look. His housekeeper
doesn't feed him enough. As soon as I get the upper hand of him a little
more, I am going to urge him on to revolt.

Meanwhile he is very grateful for something to eat, but oh, so funny in
his attempts at social grace! At first he would hold a cup of tea in
one hand, a plate of muffins in the other, and then search blankly for a
third hand to eat them with. Now he has solved the problem. He turns in
his toes and brings his knees together; then he folds his napkin into
a long, narrow wedge that fills the crack between them, thus forming a
very workable pseudo lap; after that he sits with tense muscles
until the tea is drunk. I suppose I ought to provide a table, but the
spectacle of Sandy with his toes turned in is the one gleam of amusement
that my day affords.

The postman is just driving in with, I trust, a letter from you. Letters
make a very interesting break in the monotony of asylum life. If you
wish to keep this superintendent contented, you'd better write often.

. . . . . . . .

Mail received and contents noted.

Kindly convey my thanks to Jervis for three alligators in a swamp.
He shows rare artistic taste in the selection of his post cards. Your
seven-page illustrated letter from Miami arrives at the same time. I
should have known Jervis from the palm tree perfectly, even without the
label, as the tree has so much the more hair of the two. Also, I have a
polite bread-and-butter letter from my nice young man in Washington,
and a book from him, likewise a box of candy. The bag of peanuts for the
kiddies he has shipped by express. Did you ever know such assiduity?

Jimmie favors me with the news that he is coming to visit me as soon
as father can spare him from the factory. The poor boy does hate that
factory so! It isn't that he is lazy; he just simply isn't interested in
overalls. But father can't understand such a lack of taste. Having built
up the factory, he of course has developed a passion for overalls,
which should have been inherited by his eldest son. I find it awfully
convenient to have been born a daughter; I am not asked to like
overalls, but am left free to follow any morbid career I may choose,
such as this.

To return to my mail: There arrives an advertisement from a wholesale
grocer, saying that he has exceptionally economical brands of oatmeal,
rice, flour, prunes, and dried apples that he packs specially for
prisons and charitable institutions. Sounds nutritious, doesn't it?

I also have letters from a couple of farmers, each of whom would like
to have a strong, husky boy of fourteen who is not afraid of work, their
object being to give him a good home. These good homes appear with great
frequency just as the spring planting is coming on. When we investigated
one of them last week, the village minister, in answer to our usual
question, "Does he own any property?" replied in a very guarded manner,
"I think he must own a corkscrew."

You would hardly credit some of the homes that we have investigated. We
found a very prosperous country family the other day, who lived huddled
together in three rooms in order to keep the rest of their handsome
house clean. The fourteen-year girl they wished to adopt, by way of a
cheap servant, was to sleep in the same tiny room with their own three
children. Their kitchen-dining-parlor apartment was more cluttered up
and unaired than any city tenement I ever saw, and the thermometer at
eighty-four. One could scarcely say they were living there; they were
rather COOKING. You may be sure they got no girl from us!

I have made one invariable rule--every other is flexible. No child is
to be placed out unless the proposed family can offer better advantages
than we can give. I mean than we are going to be able to give in the
course of a few months, when we get ourselves made over into a model
institution. I shall have to confess that at present we are still pretty
bad.

But anyway, I am very CHOOSEY in regard to homes, and I reject
three-fourths of those that offer.

LATER.


Gordon has made honorable amends to my children. His bag of peanuts is
here, made of burlap and three feet high.

Do you remember the dessert of peanuts and maple sugar they used to
give us at college? We turned up our noses, but ate. I am instituting it
here, and I assure you we don't turn up our noses. It is a pleasure to
feed children who have graduated from a course of Mrs. Lippett; they are
pathetically grateful for small blessings.

You can't complain that this letter is too short.

Yours,

On the verge of writer's cramp,

S. McB.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Off and on, all day Friday.

Dear Judy:

You will be interested to hear that I have encountered another
enemy--the doctor's housekeeper. I had talked to the creature several
times over the telephone, and had noted that her voice was not
distinguished by the soft, low accents that mark the caste of "Vere de
Vere"; but now I have seen her. This morning, while returning from the
village, I made a slight detour, and passed our doctor's house. Sandy
is evidently the result of environment--olive green, with a mansard roof
and the shades pulled down. You would think he had just been holding a
funeral.

I don't wonder that the amenities of life have somewhat escaped the
poor man. After studying the outside of his house, I was filled with
curiosity to see if the inside matched.

Having sneezed five times before breakfast this morning, I decided to
go in and consult him professionally. To be sure, he is a children's
specialist, but sneezes are common to all ages. So I boldly marched up
the steps and rang the bell.

Hark! What sound is that that breaks upon our revelry? The Hon. Cy's
voice, as I live, approaching up the stairs. I've letters to write, and
I can't be tormented by his blether, so I am rushing Jane to the door
with orders to look him firmly in the eye and tell him I am out.

. . . . . . . .

On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined. He's gone.

But those eight stars represent eight agonizing minutes spent in the
dark of my library closet. The Hon. Cy received Jane's communication
with the affable statement that he would sit down and wait. Whereupon
he entered and sat. But did Jane leave me to languish in the closet? No;
she enticed him to the nursery to see the AWFUL thing that Sadie Kate
has done. The Hon. Cy loves to see awful things, particularly when done
by Sadie Kate. I haven't an idea what scandal Jane is about to disclose;
but no matter, he has gone.

Where was I? Oh, yes; I had rung the doctor's bell.

The door was opened by a large, husky person with her sleeves rolled up.
She looked very businesslike, with a hawk's nose and cold gray eyes.

"Well?" said she, her tone implying that I was a vacuum-cleaning agent.

"Good morning." I smiled affably, and stepped inside. "Is this Mrs.
McGurk?"

"It is," said she. "An' ye'll be the new young woman in the orphan
asylum?"

"I am that," said I. "Is himself at home?"

"He is not," said she.

"But this is his office hour."

"He don't keep it regular'."

"He ought," said I, sternly. "Kindly tell him that Miss McBride called
to consult him, and ask him to look in at the John Grier Home this
afternoon."

"Ump'!" grunted Mrs. McGurk, and closed the door so promptly that she
shut in the hem of my skirt.

When I told the doctor this afternoon, he shrugged his shoulders, and
observed that that was Maggie's gracious way.

"And why do you put up with Maggie?" said I.

"And where would I find any one better?" said he. "Doing the work for
a lone man who comes as irregularly to meals as a twenty-four-hour day
will permit is no sinecure. She furnishes little sunshine in the home,
but she does manage to produce a hot dinner at nine o'clock at night."

Just the same, I am willing to wager that her hot dinners are neither
delicious nor well served. She's an inefficient, lazy old termagant, and
I know why she doesn't like me. She imagines that I want to steal away
the doctor and oust her from a comfortable position, something of a
joke, considering. But I am not undeceiving her; it will do the old
thing good to worry a little. She may cook him better dinners, and
fatten him up a trifle. I understand that fat men are good-natured.

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.

At that my Irish blood came to the surface, and I told him that if
God had planned to make all of these 113 little children into useless,
ignorant, unhappy citizens, I was going to fool God! That we weren't
educating them out of their class in the least. We were educating them
INTO their natural class much more effectually than is done in the
average family. We weren't trying to force them into college if they
hadn't any brains, as happens with rich men's sons; and we weren't
putting them to work at fourteen if they were naturally ambitious,
as happens with poor men's sons. We were watching them closely and
individually and discovering their level. If our children showed an
aptitude to become farm laborers and nurse-maids, we were going to teach
them to be the best possible farm laborers and nurse-maids; and if they
showed a tendency to become lawyers, we would turn them into honest,
intelligent, open-minded lawyers. (He's a lawyer himself, but certainly
not an open-minded one.)

He grunted when I had finished my remarks, and stirred his tea
vigorously. Whereupon I suggested that perhaps he needed another lump of
sugar, and dropped it in, and left him to absorb it.

The only way to deal with trustees is with a firm and steady hand. You
have to keep them in their places.

Oh, my dear! that smudge in the corner was caused by Singapore's black
tongue. He is trying to send you an affectionate kiss. Poor Sing thinks
he's a lap dog--isn't it a tragedy when people mistake their vocations?
I myself am not always certain that I was born an orphan asylum
superintendent.

Yours, til deth,

S. McB.


SUPERINTENDENT'S OFFICE,

JOHN GRIER HOME,

April 4.

THE PENDLETON FAMILY,

Palm Beach, Florida.

Dear Sir and Madam:

I have weathered my first visitors' day, and made the trustees a
beautiful speech. Everybody said it was a beautiful speech--even my
enemies.

Mr. Gordon Hallock's recent visit was exceptionally opportune; I gleaned
from him many suggestions as to how to carry an audience.

"Be funny."--I told about Sadie Kate and a few other cherubs that you
don't know.

"Keep it concrete and fitted to the intelligence of your audience."--I
watched the Hon. Cy, and never said a thing that he couldn't understand.

"Flatter your hearers."--I hinted delicately that all of these new
reforms were due to the wisdom and initiative of our peerless trustees.

"Give it a high moral tone, with a dash of pathos."--I dwelt upon the
parentless condition of these little wards of Society. And it was very
affecting--my enemy wiped away a tear!

Then I fed them up on chocolate and whipped cream and lemonade and
tartar sandwiches, and sent them home, expansive and beaming, but
without any appetite for dinner.

I dwell thus at length upon our triumph, in order to create in you a
happy frame of mind, before passing to the higeous calamity that so
nearly wrecked the occasion.

     "Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
     And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,
          For, even at this day,
          Though its smell has passed away,
     When I venture to remember it, I quail!"


You never heard of our little Tammas Kehoe, did you? I simply haven't
featured Tammas because he requires so much ink and time and vocabulary.
He's a spirited lad, and he follows his dad, a mighty hunter of
old--that sounds like more Bab Ballads, but it isn't; I made it up as I
went along.

We can't break Tammas of his inherited predatory instincts. He shoots
the chickens with bows and arrows and lassoes the pigs and plays
bull-fight with the cows--and oh, is very destructive! But his crowning
villainy occurred an hour before the trustees' meeting, when we wanted
to be so clean and sweet and engaging.

It seems that he had stolen the rat trap from the oat bin, and had set
it up in the wood lot, and yesterday morning was so fortunate as to
catch a fine big skunk.

Singapore was the first to report the discovery. He returned to the
house and rolled on the rugs in a frenzy of remorse over his part of the
business. While our attention was occupied with Sing, Tammas was busily
skinning his prey in the seclusion of the woodshed. He buttoned the pelt
inside his jacket, conveyed it by a devious route through the length
of this building, and concealed it under his bed where he thought it
wouldn't be found.

Then he went--per schedule--to the basement to help freeze the ice-cream
for our guests. You notice that we omitted ice-cream from the menu.

In the short time that remained we created all the counter-irritation
that was possible. Noah (negro furnace man) started smudge fires at
intervals about the grounds. Cook waved a shovelful of burning coffee
through the house. Betsy sprinkled the corridors with ammonia. Miss
Snaith daintily treated the rugs with violet water. I sent an emergency
call to the doctor who came and mixed a gigantic solution of chlorid
of lime. But still, above and beneath and through every other odor, the
unlaid ghost of Tammas's victim cried for vengeance.

The first business that came up at the meeting, was whether we should
dig a hole and bury, not only Tammas, but the whole main building. You
can see with what finesse I carried off the shocking event, when I tell
you that the Hon. Cy went home chuckling over a funny story, instead of
grumbling at the new superintendent's inability to manage boys.

We've our ain bit weird to dree!

As ever,

S. McBRIDE.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Friday, likewise Saturday.

Dear Judy:

Singapore is still living in the carriage house, and receiving a daily
carbolic-scented bath from Tammas Kehoe. I am hoping that some day, in
the distant future, my darling will be fit to return.

You will be pleased to hear that I have instituted a new method of
spending your money. We are henceforth to buy a part of our shoes and
drygoods and drug store comestibles from local shops, at not quite such
low prices as the wholesale jobbers give, but still at a discount,
and the education that is being thrown in is worth the difference. The
reason is this: I have made the discovery that half of my children know
nothing of money or its purchasing power. They think that shoes and corn
meal and red-flannel petticoats and mutton stew and gingham shirts just
float down from the blue sky.

Last week I dropped a new green dollar bill out of my purse, and an
eight-year-old urchin picked it up and asked if he could keep that
picture of a bird. (American eagle in the center.) That child had never
seen a bill in his life! I began an investigation, and discovered that
dozens of children in this asylum have never bought anything or have
ever seen anybody buy anything. And we are planning to turn them out
at sixteen into a world governed entirely by the purchasing power of
dollars and cents! Good heavens! just think of it! They are not to lead
sheltered lives with somebody eternally looking after them; they have
got to know how to get the very most they can out of every penny they
can manage to earn.

I pondered the question all one night, at intervals, and went to the
village at nine o'clock the next morning. I held conferences with seven
storekeepers; found four open-minded and helpful, two doubtful, and
one actively stupid. I have started with the four--drygoods, groceries,
shoes, and stationery. In return for somewhat large orders from us, they
are to turn themselves and their clerks into teachers for my children,
who are to go to the stores, inspect the stocks, and do their own
purchasing with real money.

For example, Jane needs a spool of blue sewing-silk and a yard of
elastic; so two little girls, intrusted with a silver quarter, trot
hand in hand to Mr. Meeker's. They match the silk with anxious care, and
watch the clerk jealously while he measures the elastic, to make sure
that he doesn't stretch it. Then they bring back six cents change,
receive my thanks and praise, and retire to the ranks tingling with a
sense of achievement.

Isn't it pathetic? Ordinary children of ten or twelve automatically know
so many things that our little incubator chicks have never dreamed of.
But I have a variety of plans on foot. Just give me time, and you
will see. One of these days I'll be turning out some nearly normal
youngsters.


LATER.


I've an empty evening ahead, so I'll settle to some further gossip with
you.

You remember the peanuts that Gordon Hallock sent? Well, I was so
gracious when I thanked him that it incited him to fresh effort. He
apparently went into a toy shop, and placed himself unreservedly in the
hands of an enterprising clerk. Yesterday two husky expressmen deposited
in our front hall a crate full of expensive furry animals built to be
consumed by the children of the rich. They are not exactly what I should
have purchased had I been the one to disburse such a fortune, but my
babies find them very huggable. The chicks are now taking to bed with
them lions and elephants and bears and giraffes. I don't know what the
psychological effect will be. Do you suppose when they grow up they will
all join the circus?

Oh, dear me, here is Miss Snaith, coming to pay a social call.


Good-by.

S.

P.S. The prodigal has returned. He sends his respectful regards, and
three wags of the tail.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

April 7. My dear Judy:

I have just been reading a pamphlet on manual training for girls,
and another on the proper diet for institutions--right proportions of
proteins, fats, starches, etc. In these days of scientific charity, when
every problem has been tabulated, you can run an institution by chart.
I don't see how Mrs. Lippett could have made all the mistakes she did,
assuming, of course,that she knew how to read. But there is one quite
important branch of institutional work that has not been touched upon,
and I myself am gathering data. Some day I shall issue a pamphlet on the
"Management and Control of Trustees."

I must tell you the joke about my enemy--not the Hon. Cy, but my first,
my original enemy. He has undertaken a new field of endeavor. He says
quite soberly (everything he does is sober; he has never smiled yet)
that he has been watching me closely since my arrival, and though I am
untrained and foolish and flippant (sic), he doesn't think that I am
really so superficial as I at first appeared. I have an almost masculine
ability of grasping the whole of a question and going straight to the
point.

Aren't men funny? When they want to pay you the greatest compliment in
their power, they naively tell you that you have a masculine mind. There
is one compliment, incidentally, that I shall never be paying him.
I cannot honestly say that he has a quickness of perception almost
feminine.

So, though Sandy quite plainly sees my faults, still, he thinks that
some of them may be corrected; and he has determined to carry on my
education from the point where the college dropped it. A person in
my position ought to be well read in physiology, biology, psychology,
sociology, and eugenics; she should know the hereditary effects of
insanity, idiocy, and alcohol; should be able to administer the Binet
test; and should understand the nervous system of a frog. In pursuance
whereof, he has placed at my disposal his own scientific library of four
thousand volumes. He not only fetches in the books he wants me to read,
but comes and asks questions to make sure I haven't skipped.

We devoted last week to the life and letters of the Jukes family.
Margaret, the mother of criminals, six generations ago, founded a
prolific line, and her progeny, mostly in jail, now numbers some twelve
hundred. Moral: watch the children with a bad heredity so carefully that
none of them can ever have any excuse for growing up into Jukeses.

So now, as soon as we have finished our tea, Sandy and I get out
the Doomsday Book, and pore over its pages in an anxious search for
alcoholic parents. It's a cheerful little game to while away the
twilight hour after the day's work is done.

QUELLE VIE! Come home fast and take me out of it. I'm wearying for the
sight of you.

SALLIE.



J. G. H.,

Thursday morning. My dear Pendleton Family:

I have received your letter, and I seize my pen to stop you. I don't
wish to be relieved. I take it back. I change my mind. The person you
are planning to send sounds like an exact twin of Miss Snaith. How can
you ask me to turn over my darling children to a kind, but ineffectual,
middle-aged lady without any chin? The very thought of it wrings a
mother's heart.

Do you imagine that such a woman can carry on this work even
temporarily? No! The manager of an institution like this has got to be
young and husky and energetic and forceful and efficient and red-haired
and sweet-tempered, like me. Of course I've been discontented,--anybody
would be with things in such a mess,--but it's what you socialists call
a holy discontent. And do you think that I am going to abandon all of
the beautiful reforms I have so painstakingly started? No! I am not
to be moved from this spot until you find a superintendent superior to
Sallie McBride.

That does not mean, though, that I am mortgaging myself forever. Just
for the present, until things get on their feet. While the face washing,
airing, reconstructing period lasts, I honestly believe you chose the
right person when you hit upon me. I LOVE to plan improvements and order
people about.

This is an awfully messy letter, but I'm dashing it off in three minutes
in order to catch you before you definitely engage that pleasant,
inefficient middle-aged person without a chin.

Please, kind lady and gentleman, don't do me out of me job! Let me stay
a few months longer. Just gimme a chance to show what I'm good for, and
I promise you won't never regret it.

S. McB.


J. G. H.,

Thursday afternoon.

Dear Judy:

I've composed a poem--a paean of victory.

Robin MacRae Smiled today.

It's the truth! S. McB.



THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

April 13.

Dear Judy:

I am gratified to learn that you were gratified to learn that I am going
to stay. I hadn't realized it, but I am really getting sort of attached
to orphans.

It's an awful disappointment that Jervis has business which will keep
you South so much longer. I am bursting with talk, and it is such a
laborious nuisance having to write everything I want to say.

Of course I am glad that we are to have the building remodeled, and I
think all of your ideas good, but I have a few extra good ones myself.
It will be nice to have the new gymnasium and sleeping-porches, but,
oh, my soul does long for cottages! The more I look into the internal
workings of an orphan asylum, the more I realize that the only type
of asylum that can compete with a private family is one on the cottage
system. So long as the family is the unit of society, children should be
hardened early to family life.

The problem that is keeping me awake at present is, What to do with the
children while we are being made over? It is hard to live in a house and
build it at the same time. How would it be if I rented a circus tent and
pitched it on the lawn?

Also, when we plunge into our alterations, I want a few guest rooms
where our children can come back when ill or out of work. The great
secret of our lasting influence in their lives will be our watchful care
afterward. What a terrible ALONE feeling it must give a person not to
have a family hovering in the background! With all my dozens of aunts
and uncles and mothers and fathers and cousins and brothers and sisters,
I can't visualize it. I'd be terrified and panting if I didn't have lots
of cover to run to. And for these forlorn little mites, somehow or other
the John Grier Home must supply their need. So, dear people, send me
half a dozen guest rooms, if you please.

Good-by, and I'm glad you didn't put in the other woman. The very
suggestion of somebody else taking over my own beautiful reforms before
they were even started, stirred up all the opposition in me. I'm afraid
I'm like Sandy--I canna think aught is dune richt except my ain hand is
in 't.

Yours, for the present,

SALLIE McBRIDE.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Sunday.

Dear Gordon:

I know that I haven't written lately; you have a perfect right to
grumble, but oh dear! oh dear! you can't imagine what a busy person an
orphan asylum superintendent is. And all the writing energy I possess
has to be expended upon that voracious Judy Abbott Pendleton. If three
days go by without a letter she telegraphs to know if the asylum has
burned; whereas, if you--nice man--go letterless, you simply send us a
present to remind us of your existence. So, you see, it's distinctly to
our advantage to slight you often.

You will probably be annoyed when I tell you that I have promised to
stay on here. They finally did find a woman to take my place, but she
wasn't at all the right type and would have answered only temporarily.
And, my dear Gordon, it's true, when I faced saying good-by to this
feverish planning and activity, Worcester somehow looked rather
colorless. I couldn't bear to let my asylum go unless I was sure of
substituting a life packed equally full of sensation.

I know the alternative you will suggest, but please don't--just now. I
told you before that I must have a few months longer to make up my mind.
And in the meantime I like the feeling that I'm of use in the world.
There's something constructive and optimistic about working with
children; that is, if you look at it from my cheerful point of view,
and not from our Scotch doctor's. I've never seen anybody like that man;
he's always pessimistic and morbid and down. It's best not to be too
intelligent about insanity and dipsomania and all the other hereditary
details. I am just about ignorant enough to be light-hearted and
effective in a place like this.

The thought of all of these little lives expanding in every direction
eternally thrills me. There are so many possibilities in our
child garden for every kind of flower. It has been planted rather
promiscuously, to be sure, but though we undoubtedly shall gather
a number of weeds, we are also hoping for some rare and beautiful
blossoms. Am I not growing sentimental? It is due to hunger--and there
goes the dinner-gong! We are going to have a delicious meal: roast beef
and creamed carrots and beet greens, with rhubarb pie for dessert. Would
you not like to dine with me? I should love to have you.

Most cordially yours,

S. McB.

P.S. You should see the number of poor homeless cats that these children
want to adopt. We had four when I came, and they have all had kittens
since. I haven't taken an exact census, but I think the institution
possesses nineteen.


April 15. My dear Judy:

You'd like to make another slight donation to the J. G. H. out of
the excess of last month's allowance? BENE! Will you kindly have the
following inserted in all low-class metropolitan dailies:

                Notice!
     To Parents Planning to Abandon their Children:
     Please do it before they have reached their third year.


I can't think of any action on the part of abandoning parents that would
help us more effectually. This having to root up evil before you begin
planting good is slow, discouraging work.

We have one child here who has almost floored me; but I WILL NOT
acknowledge myself beaten by a child of five. He alternates between
sullen moroseness, when he won't speak a word, and the most violent
outbursts of temper, when he smashes everything within reach. He has
been here only three months, and in that time he has destroyed nearly
every piece of bric-a-brac in the institution--not, by the way, a great
loss to art.

A month or so before I came he pulled the tablecloth from the officers'
table while the girl in charge was in the corridor sounding the gong.
The soup had already been served. You can imagine the mess! Mrs. Lippett
half killed the child on that occasion, but the killing did nothing to
lessen the temper, which was handed on to me intact.

His father was Italian and his mother Irish; he has red hair and
freckles from County Cork and the most beautiful brown eyes that ever
came out of Naples. After the father was stabbed in a fight and the
mother had died of alcoholism, the poor little chap by some chance or
other got to us. I suspect that he belongs in the Catholic Protectory.
As for his manners--oh dear! oh dear! They are what you would expect. He
kicks and bites and swears. I have dubbed him Punch.

Yesterday he was brought squirming and howling to my office, charged
with having knocked down a little girl and robbed her of her doll. Miss
Snaith plumped him into a chair behind me, and left him to grow quiet,
while I went on with my writing. I was suddenly startled by an awful
crash. He had pushed that big green jardiniere off the window-sill and
broken it into five hundred pieces. I jumped with a suddenness that
swept the ink-bottle to the floor, and when Punch saw that second
catastrophe, he stopped roaring with rage and threw back his head and
roared with laughter. The child is DIABOLICAL.

I have determined to try a new method of discipline that I don't believe
in the whole of his forlorn little life he has ever experienced. I am
going to see what praise and encouragement and love will do. So, instead
of scolding him about the jardiniere, I assumed that it was an accident.
I kissed him and told him not to feel bad; that I didn't mind in the
least. It shocked him into being quiet; he simply held his breath and
stared while I wiped away his tears and sopped up the ink.

The child just now is the biggest problem that the J. G. H. affords.
He needs the most patient, loving, individual care--a proper mother
and father, likewise some brothers and sisters and a grandmother. But I
can't place him in a respectable family until I make over his language
and his propensity to break things. I separated him from the other
children, and kept him in my room all the morning, Jane having removed
to safe heights all destructible OBJETS D'ART. Fortunately, he loves
to draw, and he sat on a rug for two hours, and occupied himself with
colored pencils. He was so surprised when I showed an interest in a
red-and-green ferryboat, with a yellow flag floating from the mast, that
he became quite profanely affable. Until then I couldn't get a word out
of him.

In the afternoon Dr. MacRae dropped in and admired the ferryboat, while
Punch swelled with the pride of creation. Then, as a reward for being
such a good little boy, the doctor took him out in his automobile on a
visit to a country patient.

Punch was restored to the fold at five o'clock by a sadder and wiser
doctor. At a sedate country estate he had stoned the chickens, smashed
a cold frame, and swung the pet Angora cat by its tail. Then when the
sweet old lady tried to make him be kind to poor pussy, he told her to
go to hell.

I can't bear to consider what some of these children have seen and
experienced. It will take years of sunshine and happiness and love to
eradicate the dreadful memories that they have stored up in the far-back
corners of their little brains. And there are so many children and so
few of us that we can't hug them enough; we simply haven't arms or laps
to go around.

MAIS PARLONS D'AUTRES CHOSES! Those awful questions of heredity and
environment that the doctor broods over so constantly are getting into
my blood, too; and it's a vicious habit. If a person is to be of any
use in a place like this, she must see nothing but good in the world.
Optimism is the only wear for a social worker.

"'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock"--do you know where that
beautiful line of poetry comes from? "Cristabel," of English K. Mercy!
how I hated that course! You, being an English shark, liked it; but
I never understood a word that was said from the time I entered the
classroom till I left it. However, the remark with which I opened this
paragraph is true. It IS the middle of night by the mantelpiece clock,
so I'll wish you pleasant dreams. ADDIO!

SALLIE.


Tuesday.


Dear Enemy:

You doctored the whole house, then stalked past my library with your
nose in the air, while I was waiting tea with a plate of Scotch scones
sitting on the trivet, ordered expressly for you as a peace-offering.

If you are really hurt, I will read the Kallikak book; but I must tell
you that you are working me to death. It takes almost all of my energy
to be an effective superintendent, and this university extension course
that you are conducting I find wearing. You remember how indignant you
were one day last week because I confessed to having stayed up until one
o'clock the night before? Well, my dear man, if I were to accomplish all
the vicarious reading you require, I should sit up until morning every
night.

However, bring it in. I usually manage half an hour of recreation after
dinner, and though I had wanted to glance at Wells's latest novel, I
will amuse myself instead with your feeble-minded family.

Life of late is unco steep. Obligingly yours,

S. McB.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

April 17.

Dear Gordon:

Thank you for the tulips, likewise the lilies of the valley. They are
most becoming to my blue Persian bowls.

Have you ever heard of the Kallikaks? Get the book and read them up.
They are a two-branch family in New Jersey, I think, though their
real name and origin is artfully concealed. But, anyway,--and this is
true,--six generations ago a young gentleman, called for convenience
Martin Kallikak, got drunk one night and temporarily eloped with a
feeble-minded barmaid, thus founding a long line of feeble-minded
Kallikaks,--drunkards, gamblers, prostitutes, horse thieves,--a scourge
to New Jersey and surrounding States.

Martin later straightened up, married a normal woman, and founded a
second line of proper Kallikaks,--judges, doctors, farmers, professors,
politicians,--a credit to their country. And there the two branches
still are, flourishing side by side. You can see what a blessing it
would have been to New Jersey if something drastic had happened to that
feeble-minded barmaid in her infancy.

It seems that feeblemindedness is a very hereditary quality, and
science isn't able to overcome it. No operation has been discovered for
introducing brains into the head of a child who didn't start with them.
And the child grows up with, say, a nine-year brain in a thirty-year
body, and becomes an easy tool for any criminal he meets. Our prisons
are one-third full of feeble-minded convicts. Society ought to segregate
them on feeble-minded farms, where they can earn their livings in
peaceful menial pursuits, and not have children. Then in a generation or
so we might be able to wipe them out.

Did you know all that? It's very necessary information for a politician
to have. Get the book and read it, please; I'd send my copy only that
it's borrowed.

It's also very necessary information for me to have. There are eleven of
these chicks that I suspect a bit, and I am SURE of Loretta Higgins. I
have been trying for a month to introduce one or two basic ideas into
that child's brain, and now I know what the trouble is: her head is
filled with a sort of soft cheesy substance instead of brain.

I came up here to make over this asylum in such little details as fresh
air and food and clothes and sunshine, but, heavens! you can see what
problems I am facing. I've got to make over society first, so that it
won't send me sub-normal children to work with. Excuse all this
excited conversation; but I've just met up with the subject of
feeble-mindedness, and it's appalling--and interesting. It is your
business as a legislator to make laws that will remove it from the
world. Please attend to this immediately, And oblige,

S. McBRIDE,

Sup't John Grier Home.


Friday.

Dear Man of Science:

You didn't come today. Please don't skip us tomorrow. I have finished
the Kallikak family and I am bursting with talk. Don't you think we
ought to have a psychologist examine these children?

We owe it to adopting parents not to saddle them with feeble-minded
offspring.

You know, I'm tempted to ask you to prescribe arsenic for Loretta's
cold. I've diagnosed her case; she's a Kallikak. Is it right to let her
grow up and found a line of 378 feeble-minded people for society to care
for? Oh dear! I do hate to poison the child, but what can I do?

S. McB.



Dear Gordon:

You aren't interested in feeble-minded people, and you are shocked
because I am? Well, I am equally shocked because you are not. If you
aren't interested in everything of the sort that there unfortunately is
in this world, how can you make wise laws?

You can't.

However, at your request, I will converse upon a less morbid subject.
I've just bought fifty yards of blue and rose and green and corn-colored
hair-ribbon as an Easter present for my fifty little daughters. I am
also thinking of sending you an Easter present. How would a nice fluffy
little kitten please you? I can offer any of the following patterns:--


Number 3 comes in any color, gray, black, or yellow. If you will let me
know which you would rather have, I will express it at once.

I would write a respectable letter, but it's teatime, and I see that a
guest approaches.

ADDIO!

SALLIE.

P.S. Don't you know some one who would like to adopt a desirable baby
boy with seventeen nice new teeth?


April 20. My dear Judy:

One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns! We've had a Good Friday
present of ten dozen, given by Mrs. De Peyster Lambert, a high church,
stained-glass-window soul whom I met at a tea a few days ago. (Who
says now that teas are a silly waste of time?) She asked me about my
"precious little waifs," and said I was doing a noble work and would be
rewarded. I saw buns in her eye, and sat down and talked to her for half
an hour.

Now I shall go and thank her in person, and tell her with a great deal
of affecting detail how much those buns were appreciated by my precious
little waifs--omitting the account of how precious little Punch threw
his bun at Miss Snaith and plastered her neatly in the eye. I think,
with encouragement, Mrs. De Peyster Lambert can be developed into a
cheerful giver.

Oh, I'm growing into the most shocking beggar! My family don't dare
to visit me, because I demand BAKSHISH in such a brazen manner. I
threatened to remove father from my calling list unless he shipped
immediately sixty-five pairs of overalls for my prospective gardeners.
A notice from the freight office this morning asks me to remove two
packing cases consigned to them by the J. L. McBride Co. of Worcester;
so I take it that father desires to continue my acquaintance. Jimmie
hasn't sent us anything yet, and he's getting a huge salary. I write him
frequently a pathetic list of our needs.

But Gordon Hallock has learned the way to a mother's heart. I was so
pleasant about the peanuts and menagerie that now he sends a present of
some sort every few days, and I spend my entire time composing thank-you
letters that aren't exact copies of the ones I've sent before. Last week
we received a dozen big scarlet balls. The nursery is FULL of them;
you kick them before you as you walk. And yesterday there arrived a
half-bushel of frogs and ducks and fishes to float in the bathtubs.

Send, O best of trustees, the tubs in which to float them!

I am, as usual,

S. McBRIDE.


Tuesday. My dear Judy:

Spring must be lurking about somewhere; the birds are arriving from the
South. Isn't it time you followed their example?

Society note from the BIRD O' PASSAGE NEWS:

"Mr. and Mrs. First Robin have returned from a trip to Florida. It is
hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Jervis Pendleton will arrive shortly."

Even up here in our dilatory Dutchess County the breeze smells green.
It makes you want to be out and away, roaming the hills, or else down on
your knees grubbing in the dirt. Isn't it funny what farmering instincts
the budding spring awakens in even the most urban souls?

I have spent the morning making plans for little private gardens for
every child over nine. The big potato field is doomed. That is the only
feasible spot for sixty-two private gardens. It is near enough to be
watched from the north windows, and yet far enough away, so that their
messing will not injure our highly prized landscape lawn. Also the earth
is rich, and they have some chance of success. I don't want the poor
little chicks to scratch all summer, and then not turn up any treasure
in the end. In order to furnish an incentive, I shall announce that
the institution will buy their produce and pay in real money, though I
foresee we shall be buried under a mountain of radishes.

I do so want to develop self-reliance and initiative in these children,
two sturdy qualities in which they are conspicuously lacking (with the
exception of Sadie Kate and a few other bad ones). Children who have
spirit enough to be bad I consider very hopeful. It's those who are good
just from inertia that are discouraging.

The last few days have been spent mainly in charming the devil out of
Punch, an interesting task if I could devote my whole time to it.
But with one hundred and seven other little devils to charm away, my
attention is sorely deflected.

The awful thing about this life is that whatever I am doing, the other
things that I am not doing, but ought to be, keep tugging at my skirts.
There is no doubt but Punch's personal devil needs the whole attention
of a whole person,--preferably two persons,--so that they could spell
each other and get some rest.

Sadie Kate has just flown in from the nursery with news of a scarlet
goldfish (Gordon's gift) swallowed by one of our babies. Mercy! the
number of calamities that can occur in an orphan asylum!

9 P.M.


My children are in bed, and I've just had a thought. Wouldn't it be
heavenly if the hibernating system prevailed among the human young?
There would be some pleasure in running an asylum if one could just tuck
the little darlings into bed the first of October and keep them there
until the twenty-second of April.

I'm yours, as ever,

SALLIE.



April 24.

Dear Jervis Pendleton, Esq.:

This is to supplement a night telegram which I sent you ten minutes
ago. Fifty words not being enough to convey any idea of my emotions, I
herewith add a thousand.

As you will know by the time you receive this, I have discharged the
farmer, and he has refused to be discharged. Being twice the size of me,
I can't lug him to the gate and chuck him out. He wants a notification
from the president of the board of trustees written in vigorous language
on official paper in typewriting. So, dear president of the board of
trustees, kindly supply all of this at your earliest convenience.

Here follows the history of the case:

The winter season still being with us when I arrived and farming
activities at a low ebb, I have heretofore paid little attention to
Robert Sterry except to note on two occasions that his pigpens needed
cleaning; but today I sent for him to come and consult with me in regard
to spring planting.

Sterry came, as requested, and seated himself at ease in my office with
his hat upon his head. I suggested as tactfully as might be that he
remove it, an entirely necessary request, as little orphan boys were
in and out on errands, and "hats off in the house" is our first rule in
masculine deportment.

Sterry complied with my request, and stiffened himself to be against
whatever I might desire.

I proceeded to the subject in hand, namely, that the diet of the
John Grier Home in the year to come is to consist less exclusively of
potatoes. At which our farmer grunted in the manner of the Hon. Cyrus
Wykoff, only it was a less ethereal and gentlemanly grunt than a trustee
permits himself. I enumerated corn and beans and onions and peas and
tomatoes and beets and carrots and turnips as desirable substitutes.

Sterry observed that if potatoes and cabbages was good enough for him,
he guessed they was good enough for charity children.

I proceeded imperturbably to say that the two-acre potato field was to
be plowed and fertilized, and laid out into sixty individual gardens,
the boys assisting in the work.

At that Sterry exploded. The two-acre field was the most fertile and
valuable piece of earth on the whole place. He guessed if I was to break
that up into play gardens for the children to mess about in, I'd be
hearing about it pretty danged quick from the board of trustees. That
field was fitted for potatoes, it had always raised potatoes, and it was
going to continue to raise them just as long as he had anything to say
about it.

"You have nothing whatever to say about it," I amiably replied. "I
have decided that the two-acre field is the best plot to use for the
children's gardens, and you and the potatoes will have to give way."

Whereupon he rose in a storm of bucolic wrath, and said he'd be gol
darned if he'd have a lot of these danged city brats interfering with
his work.

I explained--very calmly for a red-haired person with Irish
forebears--that this place was run for the exclusive benefit of these
children; that the children were not here to be exploited for the
benefit of the place, a philosophy which he did not grasp, though my
fancy city language had a slightly dampening effect. I added that what
I required in a farmer was the ability and patience to instruct the
boys in gardening and simple outdoor work; that I wished a man of
large sympathies whose example would be an inspiring influence to these
children of the city streets.

Sterry, pacing about like a caged woodchuck, launched into a tirade
about silly Sunday-school notions, and, by a transition which I did not
grasp, passed to a review of the general subject of woman's suffrage.
I gathered that he is not in favor of the movement. I let him argue
himself quiet, then I handed him a check for his wages, and told him to
vacate the tenant house by twelve o'clock next Wednesday.

Sterry says he'll be danged if he will. (Excuse so many DANGEDS. It
is the creature's only adjective.) He was engaged to work for this
institution by the president of the board of trustees, and he will not
move from that house until the president of the board of trustees tells
him to go. I don't think poor Sterry realizes that since his arrival a
new president has come to the throne.

ALORS you have the story. I make no threats, but Sterry or McBride--take
your choice, dear sir.

I am also about to write to the head of the Massachusetts Agricultural
College, at Amherst, asking him to recommend a good, practical man with
a nice, efficient, cheerful wife, who will take the entire care of our
modest domain of seventeen acres, and who will be a man with the right
personality to place over our boys.

If we get the farming end of this institution into running shape, it
ought to furnish not only beans and onions for the table, but education
for our hands and brains.


I remain, sir, Yours most truly, S. McBRIDE, Superintendent of the John
Grier Home.

P.S. I think that Sterry will probably come back some night and throw
rocks through the windows. Shall I have them insured?



My dear Enemy:

You disappeared so quickly this afternoon that I had no chance to thank
you, but the echoes of that discharge penetrated as far as my library.
Also, I have viewed the debris. What on earth did you do to poor Sterry?
Watching the purposeful set of your shoulders as you strode toward the
carriage house, I was filled with sudden compunction. I did not want the
man murdered, merely reasoned with. I am afraid you were a little harsh.

However, your technic seems to have been effective. Report says that he
has telephoned for a moving wagon and that Mrs. Sterry is even now on
her hands and knees ripping up the parlor carpet.

For this relief much thanks.

SALLIE McBRIDE.



April 26.

Dear Jervis:

Your vigorous telegram was, after all, not needed. Dr. Robin MacRae, who
is a grand PAWKY mon when it comes to a fight, accomplished the business
with beautiful directness. I was so bubbling with rage that immediately
after writing to you I called up the doctor on the telephone, and
rehearsed the whole business over again. Now, our Sandy, whatever his
failings (and he has them), does have an uncommon supply of common
sense. He knows how useful those gardens are going to be, and how worse
than useless Sterry was. Also says he, "The superintendent's authority
must be upheld." (That, incidentally, is beautiful, coming from him.)
But anyway, those were his words. And he hung up the receiver, cranked
up his car, and flew up here at lawless speed. He marched straight to
Sterry, impelled by a fine Scotch rage, and he discharged the man with
such vigor and precision, that the carriage house window was shattered
to fragments.

Since this morning at eleven, when Sterry's wagonload of furniture
rumbled out of the gates, a sweet peace has reigned over the J. G. H.
A man from the village is helping us out while we hopefully await the
farmer of our dreams.

I am sorry to have troubled you with our troubles. Tell Judy that she
owes me a letter, and won't hear from me until she has paid it. Your ob'd't
servant,

S. McBRIDE.


Dear Judy:

In my letter of yesterday to Jervis I forgotted (Punch's word) to convey
to you our thanks for three tin bathtubs. The skyblue tub with poppies
on the side adds a particularly bright note to the nursery. I do love
presents for the babies that are too big to be swallowed.

You will be pleased to hear that our manual training is well under way.
The carpenter benches are being installed in the old primary room,
and until our schoolhouse gets its new addition, our primary class
is meeting on the front porch, in accordance with Miss Matthew's able
suggestion.

The girls' sewing classes are also in progress. A circle of benches
under the copper beech tree accommodates the hand sewers, while the big
girls take turns at our three machines. Just as soon as they gain
some proficiency we will begin the glorious work of redressing the
institution. I know you think I'm slow, but it's really a task to
accomplish one hundred and eighty new frocks. And the girls will
appreciate them so much more if they do the work themselves.

I may also report that our hygiene system has risen to a high level. Dr.
MacRae has introduced morning and evening exercises, and a glass of milk
and a game of tag in the middle of school hours. He has instituted a
physiology class, and has separated the children into small groups, so
that they may come to his house, where he has a manikin that comes apart
and shows all its messy insides. They can now rattle off scientific
truths about their little digestions as fluently as Mother Goose rhymes.
We are really becoming too intelligent for recognition. You would never
guess that we were orphans to hear us talk; we are quite like Boston
children.

2 P.M.


O Judy, such a calamity! Do you remember several weeks ago I told you
about placing out a nice little girl in a nice family home where I
hoped she would be adopted? It was a kind Christian family living in
a pleasant country village, the foster-father a deacon in the church.
Hattie was a sweet, obedient, housewifely little body, and it looked
as though we had exactly fitted them to each other. My dear, she was
returned this morning for STEALING. Scandal piled on scandal: SHE HAD
STOLEN A COMMUNION CUP FROM CHURCH!

Between her sobs and their accusations it took me half an hour to gather
the truth. It seems that the church they attend is very modern and
hygienic, like our doctor, and has introduced individual communion cups.
Poor little Hattie had never heard of communion in her life. In fact,
she wasn't very used to church, Sunday-school having always sufficed for
her simple religious needs. But in her new home she attended both, and
one day, to her pleased surprise, they served refreshments. But they
skipped her. She made no comment, however; she is used to being skipped.

But as they were starting home she saw that the little silver cup had
been casually left in the seat, and supposing that it was a souvenir
that you could take if you wished, she put it into her pocket.

It came to light two days later as the most treasured ornament of her
doll's-house. It seems that Hattie long ago saw a set of doll's dishes
in a toy shop window, and has ever since dreamed of possessing a set of
her own. The communion cup was not quite the same, but it answered.
Now, if our family had only had a little less religion and a little more
sense, they would have returned the cup, perfectly unharmed, and have
marched Hattie to the nearest toy shop and bought her some dishes. But
instead, they bundled the child and her belongings into the first train
they could catch, and shoved her in at our front door, proclaiming
loudly that she was a thief.

I am pleased to say that I gave that indignant deacon and his wife such
a thorough scolding as I am sure they have never listened to from the
pulpit. I borrowed some vigorous bits from Sandy's vocabulary, and sent
them home quite humbled. As for poor little Hattie, here she is back
again, after going out with such high hopes. It has an awfully bad moral
effect on a child to be returned to the asylum in disgrace, especially
when she wasn't aware of committing a crime. It gives her a feeling that
the world is full of unknown pitfalls, and makes her afraid to take
a step. I must bend all my energies now toward finding another set of
parents for her, and ones that haven't grown so old and settled and good
that they have entirely forgotten their own childhood.

Sunday.


I forgot to tell you that our new farmer is here, Turnfelt by name; and
his wife is a love, yellow hair and dimples. If she were an orphan,
I could place her in a minute. We can't let her go to waste. I have
a beautiful plan of building an addition to the farmer's cottage, and
establishing under her comfortable care a sort of brooding-house where
we can place our new little chicks, to make sure they haven't anything
contagious and to eliminate as much profanity as possible before turning
them loose among our other perfect chicks.

How does that strike you? It is very necessary in an institution as full
of noise and movement and stir as this to have some isolated spot where
we can put cases needing individual attention. Some of our children
have inherited nerves, and a period of quiet contemplation is indicated.
Isn't my vocabulary professional and scientific? Daily intercourse with
Dr. Robin MacRae is extremely educational.

Since Turnfelt came, you should see our pigs. They are so clean and pink
and unnatural that they don't recognize one another any more as they
pass.

Our potato field is also unrecognizable. It has been divided with string
and pegs into as many squares as a checker-board, and every child has
staked out a claim. Seed catalogues form our only reading matter.

Noah has just returned from a trip to the village for the Sunday papers
to amuse his leisure. Noah is a very cultivated person; he not only
reads perfectly, but he wears tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles while he
does it. He also brought from the post office a letter from you, written
Friday night. I am pained to note that you do not care for "Gosta
Berling" and that Jervis doesn't. The only comment I can make is, "What
a shocking lack of literary taste in the Pendleton family!"

Dr. MacRae has another doctor visiting him, a very melancholy gentleman
who is at the head of a private psychopathic institution, and thinks
there's no good in life. But I suppose this pessimistic view is natural
if you eat three meals a day with a tableful of melancholics. He goes
up and down the world looking for signs of degeneracy, and finds them
everywhere. I expected, after half an hour's conversation, that he would
ask to look down my throat to see if I had a cleft palate. Sandy's taste
in friends seems to resemble his taste in literature. Gracious! this is
a letter!

Good-by.

SALLIE.


Thursday, May 2.

Dear Judy:

Such a bewildering whirl of events! The J. G. H. is breathless.
Incidentally, I am on the way toward solving my problem of what to do
with the children while the carpenters and plumbers and masons are here.
Or, rather, my precious brother has solved it for me.

This afternoon I went over my linen supply, and made the shocking
discovery that we have only sheets enough to change the children's beds
every two weeks, which, it appears, is our shiftless custom. While I
was still in the midst of my household gear, with a bunch of keys at my
girdle, looking like the chatelaine of a medieval château, who should be
ushered in but Jimmie?

Being extremely occupied, I dropped a slanting kiss on his nose, and
sent him off to look over the place in charge of my two oldest urchins.
They collected six friends and organized a baseball game. Jimmie came
back blown, but enthusiastic, and consented to prolong his visit over
the week end, though after the dinner I gave him he has decided to take
his future meals at the hotel. As we sat with our coffee before the
fire, I confided to him my anxiety as to what should be done with the
chicks while their new brooder is building. You know Jimmie. In one half
a minute his plan was formulated.

"Build an Adirondack camp on that little plateau up by the wood lot.
You can make three open shacks, each holding eight bunks, and move the
twenty-four oldest boys out there for the summer. It won't cost two
cents."

"Yes," I objected, "but it will cost more than two cents to engage a man
to look after them."

"Perfectly easy," said Jimmie, grandly. "I'll find you a college fellow
who'll be glad to come during the vacation for his board and a mere
pittance, only you'll have to set up more filling board than you gave me
tonight."

Dr. MacRae dropped in about nine o'clock, after visiting the hospital
ward. We've got three cases of whooping cough, but all isolated, and no
more coming. How those three got in is a mystery. It seems there is a
little bird that brings whooping cough to orphan asylums.

Jimmie fell upon him for backing in his camp scheme, and the doctor gave
it enthusiastically. They seized pencil and paper and drew up plans. And
before the evening was over, the last nail was hammered. Nothing would
satisfy those two men but to go to the telephone at ten o'clock and
rouse a poor carpenter from his sleep. He and some lumber are ordered
for eight in the morning.

I finally got rid of them at ten-thirty, still talking uprights and
joists and drainage and roof slants.

The excitement of Jimmie and coffee and all these building operations
induced me to sit down immediately and write a letter to you; but I
think, by your leave, I'll postpone further details to another time.
Yours ever,

SALLIE.


Saturday.

Dear Enemy:

Will you be after dining with us at seven tonight? It's a real dinner
party; we're going to have ice-cream.

My brother has discovered a promising young man to take charge of the
boys,--maybe you know him,--Mr. Witherspoon, at the bank. I wish to
introduce him to asylum circles by easy steps, so PLEASE don't mention
insanity or epilepsy or alcoholism or any of your other favorite topics.

He is a gay young society leader, used to very fancy things to eat. Do
you suppose we can ever make him happy at the John Grier Home? Yours in
evident haste,

SALLIE McBRIDE.


Sunday.

Dear Judy:

Jimmie was back at eight Friday morning, and the doctor at a quarter
past. They and the carpenter and our new farmer and Noah and our two
horses and our eight biggest boys have been working ever since. Never
were building operations set going in faster time. I wish I had a dozen
Jimmies on the place, though I will say that my brother works faster
if you catch him before the first edge of his enthusiasm wears away. He
would not be much good at chiseling out a medieval cathedral.

He came back Saturday morning aglow with a new idea. He had met at
the hotel the night before a friend who belongs to his hunting club in
Canada, and who is cashier of our First (and only) National Bank.

"He's a bully good sport," said Jimmie, "and exactly the man you want
to camp out with those kids and lick 'em into shape. He'll be willing to
come for his board and forty dollars a month, because he's engaged to a
girl in Detroit and wants to save. I told him the food was rotten, but
if he kicked enough, you'd probably get a new cook."

"What's his name?" said I, with guarded interest.

"He's got a peach of a name. It's Percy de Forest Witherspoon."

I nearly had hysterics. Imagine a Percy de Forest Witherspoon in charge
of those twenty-four wild little savages!

But you know Jimmie when he has an idea. He had already invited Mr.
Witherspoon to dine with me on Saturday evening, and had ordered oysters
and squabs and ice-cream from the village caterer to help out my veal.
It ended by my giving a very formal dinner party, with Miss Matthews and
Betsy and the doctor included.

I almost asked the Hon. Cy and Miss Snaith. Ever since I have known
those two, I have felt that there ought to be a romance between them.
Never have I known two people who matched so perfectly. He's a widower
with five children. Don't you suppose it might be arranged? If he had
a wife to take up his attention, it might deflect him a little from us.
I'd be getting rid of them both at one stroke. It's to be considered
among our future improvements.

Anyway, we had our dinner. And during the course of the evening my
anxiety grew, not as to whether Percy would do for us, but as to whether
we should do for Percy. If I searched the world over, I never could
find a young man more calculated to win the affection of those boys.
You know, just by looking at him, that he does everything well, at least
everything vigorous. His literary and artistic accomplishments I suspect
a bit, but he rides and shoots and plays golf and football and sails a
boat. He likes to sleep out of doors and he likes boys. He has always
wanted to know some orphans; often read about 'em in books, he says, but
never met any face to face. Percy does seem too good to be true.

Before they left, Jimmie and the doctor hunted up a lantern, and in
their evening clothes conducted Mr. Witherspoon across a plowed field to
inspect his future dwelling.

And such a Sunday as we passed! I had absolutely to forbid their
carpentering. Those men would have put in a full day, quite irrespective
of the damage done to one hundred and four little moral natures. As it
is, they have just stood and looked at those shacks and handled their
hammers, and thought about where they would drive the first nail
tomorrow morning. The more I study men, the more I realize that they are
nothing in the world but boys grown too big to be spankable.

I am awfully worried as to how to feed Mr. Witherspoon. He looks as
though he had a frightfully healthy appetite, and he looks as though he
couldn't swallow his dinner unless he had on evening clothes. I've made
Betsy send home for a trunkful of evening gowns in order to keep up our
social standing. One thing is fortunate: he takes his luncheon at the
hotel, and I hear their luncheons are very filling.

Tell Jervis I am sorry he is not with us to drive a nail for the camp.
Here comes the Hon. Cy up the path. Heaven save us!

Ever your unfortunate,

S. McB.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

May 8.

Dear Judy:

Our camp is finished, our energetic brother has gone, and our
twenty-four boys have passed two healthful nights in the open. The three
bark-covered shacks add a pleasant rustic touch to the grounds. They are
like those we used to have in the Adirondacks, closed on three sides
and open in the front, and one larger than the rest to allow a private
pavilion for Mr. Percy Witherspoon. An adjacent hut, less exposed to the
weather, affords extremely adequate bathing facilities, consisting of a
faucet in the wall and three watering-cans. Each camp has a bath master
who stands on a stool and sprinkles each little shiverer as he trots
under. Since our trustees WON'T give us enough bathtubs, we have to use
our wits.

The three camps have organized into three tribes of Indians, each with
a chief of its own to answer for its conduct, Mr. Witherspoon high chief
of all, and Dr. MacRae the medicine man. They dedicated their lodges
Tuesday evening with appropriate tribal ceremonies. And though they
politely invited me to attend, I decided that it was a purely masculine
affair, so I declined to go, but sent refreshments, a very popular move.
Betsy and I walked as far as the baseball field in the course of the
evening, and caught a glimpse of the orgies. The braves were squatting
in a circle about a big fire, each decorated with a blanket from his bed
and a rakish band of feathers. (Our chickens seem very scant as to tail,
but I have asked no unpleasant questions.) The doctor, with a Navajo
blanket about his shoulders, was executing a war dance, while Jimmie
and Mr. Witherspoon beat on war drums--two of our copper kettles, now
permanently dented. Fancy Sandy! It's the first youthful glimmer I have
ever caught in the man.

After ten o'clock, when the braves were safely stowed for the night,
the three men came in and limply dropped into comfortable chairs in my
library, with the air of having made martyrs of themselves in the great
cause of charity. But they did not deceive me. They originated all that
tomfoolery for their own individual delectation.

So far Mr. Percy Witherspoon appears fairly happy. He is presiding at
one end of the officers' table under the special protection of Betsy,
and I am told that he instills considerable life into that sedate
assemblage. I have endeavored to run up their menu a trifle, and
he accepts what is put before him with a perfectly good appetite,
irrespective of the absence of such accustomed trifles as oysters and
quail and soft-shell crabs.

There was no sign of a private sitting room that I could put at this
young man's disposal, but he himself has solved the difficulty by
proposing to occupy our new laboratory. So he spends his evenings with a
book and a pipe, comfortably stretched in the dentist's chair. There
are not many society men who would be willing to spend their evenings so
harmlessly. That girl in Detroit is a lucky young thing.

Mercy! An automobile full of people has just arrived to look over the
institution, and Betsy, who usually does the honors, not here. I fly.

ADDIO!

SALLIE.


My dear Gordon:

This is not a letter,--I don't owe you one,--it's a receipt for
sixty-five pairs of roller skates.

Many thanks.

S. McB.


Friday.

Dear Enemy:

I hear that I missed a call today, but Jane delivered your message,
together with the "Genetic Philosophy of Education." She says that
you will call in a few days for my opinion of the book. Is it to be a
written or an oral examination?

And doesn't it ever occur to you that this education business is rather
one-sided? It often strikes me that Dr. Robin MacRae's mental attitude
would also be the better for some slight refurbishing. I will promise to
read your book, provided you read one of mine. I am sending herewith the
"Dolly Dialogues," and shall ask for an opinion in a day or so.

It's uphill work making a Scotch Presbyterian frivolous, but persistency
accomplishes wonders.

S. McB.


May 12. My dear, dear Judy:

Talk about floods in Ohio! Right here in Dutchess County we are the
consistency of a wet sponge. Rain for five days, and everything wrong
with this institution.

The babies have had croup, and we have been up o' nights with them. Cook
has given notice, and there's a dead rat in the walls. Our three camps
leaked, and in the early dawn, after the first cloudburst, twenty-four
bedraggled little Indians, wrapped in damp bedding, came shivering to
the door and begged for admission. Since then every clothesline, every
stair-railing has been covered with wet and smelly blankets that steam,
but won't dry. Mr. Percy de Forest Witherspoon has returned to the hotel
to wait until the sun comes out.

After being cooped up for four days with no exercise to speak of, the
children's badness is breaking out in red spots, like the measles. Betsy
and I have thought of every form of active and innocent occupation that
could be carried on in such a congested quarter as this: blind man's
buff and pillow fights and hide-and-go-seek, gymnastics in the dining
room, and bean-bags in the school room. (We broke two windows.) The boys
played leapfrog up and down the hall, and jarred all the plaster in the
building. We have cleaned energetically and furiously. All the woodwork
has been washed, and all of the floors polished. But despite everything,
we have a great deal of energy left, and we are getting to that point of
nerves where we want to punch one another.

Sadie Kate has been acting like a little deil--do they have feminine
deils? If not, Sadie Kate has originated the species. And this afternoon
Loretta Higgins had--well, I don't know whether it was a sort of fit or
just a temper. She lay down on the floor and howled for a solid hour,
and when any one tried to approach her, she thrashed about like a little
windmill and bit and kicked.

By the time the doctor came she had pretty well worn herself out.
He picked her up, limp and drooping, and carried her to a cot in the
hospital room; and after she was asleep he came down to my library and
asked to look at the archives.

Loretta is thirteen; in the three years she has been here she has had
five of these outbreaks, and has been punished good and hard for them.
The child's ancestral record is simple: "Mother died of alcoholic
dementia, Bloomingdale Asylum. Father unknown."

He studied the page long and frowningly and shook his head.

"With a heredity like that, is it right to punish the child for having a
shattered nervous system?"

"It is not," said I, firmly. "We will mend her shattered nervous
system."

"If we can."

"We'll feed her up on cod-liver oil and sunshine, and find a nice kind
foster mother who will take pity on the poor little--"

But then my voice trailed off into nothing as I pictured Loretta's face,
with her hollow eyes and big nose and open mouth and no chin and stringy
hair and sticking-out ears. No foster mother in the world would love a
child who looked like that.

"Why, oh, why," I wailed, "doesn't the good Lord send orphan children
with blue eyes and curly hair and loving dispositions? I could place a
million of that sort in kind homes, but no one wants Loretta."

"I'm afraid the good Lord doesn't have anything to do with bringing our
Lorettas into the world. It is the devil who attends to them."

Poor Sandy! He gets awfully pessimistic about the future of the
universe; but I don't wonder, with such a cheerless life as he leads. He
looked today as though his own nervous system was shattered. He had been
splashing about in the rain since five this morning, when he was called
to a sick baby case. I made him sit down and have some tea, and we had a
nice, cheerful talk on drunkenness and idiocy and epilepsy and insanity.
He dislikes alcoholic parents, but he ties himself into a knot over
insane parents.

Privately, I don't believe there's one thing in heredity, provided you
snatch the babies away before their eyes are opened.

We've got the sunniest youngster here you ever saw; his mother and
Aunt Ruth and Uncle Silas all died insane, but he is as placid and
unexcitable as a cow.

Good-by, my dear. I am sorry this is not a more cheerful letter, though
at this moment nothing unpleasant seems to be happening. It's eleven
o'clock, and I have just stuck my head into the corridor, and all is
quiet except for two banging shutters and leaking eaves. I promised Jane
I would go to bed at ten. Good night, and joy be wi' ye baith!

SALLIE.

P.S. There is one thing in the midst of all my troubles that I have to
be grateful for: the Hon. Cy has been stricken with a lingering attack
of grippe. In a burst of thankfulness I sent him a bunch of violets.
P.S. 2. We are having an epidemic of pinkeye.


May 16. Good morning, my dear Judy!

Three days of sunshine, and the J. G. H. is smiling.

I am getting my immediate troubles nicely settled. Those beastly
blankets have dried at last, and our camps have been made livable again.
They are floored with wooden slats and roofed with tar paper. (Mr.
Witherspoon calls them chicken coops.) We are digging a stone-lined
ditch to convey any further cloudbursts from the plateau on which they
stand to the cornfield below. The Indians have resumed savage life, and
their chief is back at his post.

The doctor and I have been giving Loretta Higgins's nerves our most
careful consideration. We think that this barrack life, with its
constant movement and stir, is too exciting, and we have decided that
the best plan will be to board her out in a private family, where she
will receive a great deal of individual attention.

The doctor, with his usual resourcefulness, has produced the family.
They live next door to him and are very nice people; I have just
returned from calling. The husband is foreman of the casting room at the
iron works, and the wife is a comfortable soul who shakes all over
when she laughs. They live mostly in their kitchen in order to keep the
parlor neat; but it is such a cheerful kitchen that I should like to
live in it myself. She has potted begonias in the window and a nice
purry tiger cat asleep on a braided rug in front of the stove. She bakes
on Saturday--cookies and gingerbread and doughnuts. I am planning to pay
my weekly call upon Loretta every Saturday morning at eleven o'clock.
Apparently I made as favorable an impression on Mrs. Wilson as she made
on me. After I had gone, she confided to the doctor that she liked me
because I was just as common as she was.

Loretta is to learn housework and have a little garden of her own, and
particularly play out of doors in the sunshine. She is to go to bed
early and be fed up on nice nourishing food, and they are to pet her and
make her happy. All this for three dollars a week!

Why not find a hundred such families, and board out all the children?
Then this building could be turned into an idiot asylum, and I, not
knowing anything about idiots, could conscientiously resign and go back
home and live happily ever after.

Really, Judy, I am growing frightened. This asylum will get me if I stay
long enough. I am becoming so interested in it that I can't think or
talk or dream of anything else. You and Jervis have blasted all my
prospects in life.

Suppose I should retire and marry and have a family. As families go
nowadays, I couldn't hope for more than five or six children at the
most, and all with the same heredity. But, mercy! such a family appears
perfectly insignificant and monotonous. You have institutionalized me.

Reproachfully yours,

SALLIE McBRIDE.

P.S. We have a child here whose father was lynched. Isn't that a piquant
detail to have in one's history?


Tuesday.

Dearest Judy:

What shall we do? Mamie Prout does not like prunes. This antipathy to a
cheap and healthful foodstuff is nothing but imagination, and ought
not to be countenanced among the inmates of a well-managed institution.
Mamie must be made to like prunes. So says our grammar teacher, who
spends the noonday hour with us and overlooks the morals of our charges.
About one o'clock today she marched Mamie to my office charged with the
offense of refusing, ABSOLUTELY refusing, to open her mouth and put in
a prune. The child was plumped down on a stool to await punishment from
me.

Now, as you know, I do not like bananas, and I should hate awfully to be
forced to swallow them; so, by the same token, why should I force Mamie
Prout to swallow prunes?

While I was pondering a course that would seem to uphold Miss Keller's
authority, but would at the same time leave a loophole for Mamie, I was
called to the telephone.

"Sit there until I come back," I said, and went out and closed the door.

The message was from a kind lady wishing to motor me to a committee
meeting. I didn't tell you that I am organizing local interest in our
behalf. The idle rich who possess estates in this neighborhood are
beginning to drift out from town, and I am laying my plans to catch
them before they are deflected by too many garden parties and tennis
tournaments. They have never been of the slightest use to this asylum,
and I think it's about time they woke up to a realization of our
presence.

Returning at teatime, I was waylaid in the hall by Dr. MacRae, who
demanded some statistics from my office. I opened the door, and there
sat Mamie Prout exactly where she had been left four hours before.

"Mamie darling!" I cried in horror. "You haven't been here all this
time?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mamie; "you told me to wait until you came back."

That poor patient little thing was fairly swaying with weariness, but
she never uttered a whimper.

I will say for Sandy that he was SWEET. He gathered her up in his arms
and carried her to my library, and petted her and caressed her back to
smiles. Jane brought the sewing table and spread it before the fire,
and while the doctor and I had tea, Mamie had her supper. I suppose,
according to the theory of some educators, now, when she was thoroughly
worn out and hungry, would have been the psychological moment to ply her
with prunes. But you will be pleased to hear that I did nothing of the
sort, and that the doctor for once upheld my unscientific principles.
Mamie had the most wonderful supper of her life, embellished with
strawberry jam from my private jar and peppermints from Sandy's pocket.
We returned her to her mates happy and comforted, but still possessing
that regrettable distaste for prunes.

Did you ever know anything more appalling than this soul-crushing
unreasoning obedience which Mrs. Lippett so insistently fostered? It's
the orphan asylum attitude toward life, and somehow I must crush it out.
Initiative, responsibility, curiosity, inventiveness, fight--oh dear! I
wish the doctor had a serum for injecting all these useful virtues into
an orphan's circulation.

LATER.


I wish you'd come back to New York. I've appointed you press agent
for this institution, and we need some of your floweriest writing
immediately. There are seven tots here crying to be adopted, and it's
your business to advertise them.

Little Gertrude is cross-eyed, but dear and affectionate and generous.
Can't you write her up so persuasively that some loving family will
be willing to take her even if she isn't beautiful? Her eyes can be
operated on when she's older; but if it were a cross disposition she
had, no surgeon in the world could remove that. The child knows there is
something missing, though she has never seen a live parent in her life.
She holds up her arms persuasively to every person who passes. Put in
all the pathos you are capable of, and see if you can't fetch her a
mother and father.

Maybe you can get one of the New York papers to run a Sunday feature
article about a lot of different children. I'll send some photographs.
You remember what a lot of responses that "Smiling Joe" picture brought
for the Sea Breeze people? I can furnish equally taking portraits of
Laughing Lou and Gurgling Gertrude and Kicking Karl if you will just add
the literary touch.

And do find me some sports who are not afraid of heredity. This wanting
every child to come from one of the first families of Virginia is
getting tiresome.

Yours, as usual,

SALLIE.


Friday. My dear, dear Judy:

Such an upheaval! I've discharged the cook and the housekeeper, and in
delicate language conveyed the impression to our grammar teacher that
she needn't come back next year. But, oh, if I could only discharge the
Honorable Cy!

I must tell you what happened this morning. Our trustee, who has had a
dangerous illness, is now dangerously well again, and dropped in to
pay a neighborly call. Punch was occupying a rug on my library floor,
virtuously engaged with building blocks. I am separating him from the
other kindergarten children, and trying the Montessori method of a
private rug and no nervous distraction. I was flattering myself that it
was working well; his vocabulary of late has become almost prudish.

After half an hour's desultory visit, the Hon. Cy rose to go. As the
door closed behind him (I am at least thankful the child waited for
that), Punch raised his appealing brown eyes to mine and murmured, with
a confiding smile:

"Gee! ain't he got de hell of a mug?"

If you know a kind Christian family where I can place out a sweet little
five-year boy, please communicate at once with

S. McBRIDE,

Sup't John Grier Home.




Dear Pendletons:

I've never known anything like you two snails. You've only just reached
Washington, and I have had my suitcase packed for days, ready to spend
a rejuvenating week end CHEZ VOUS. Please hurry! I've languished in this
asylum atmosphere as long as humanely possible. I shall gasp and die if
I don't get a change.

Yours,

on the point of suffocation,

S. McB.

P.S. Drop a card to Gordon Hallock, telling him you are there. He will
be charmed to put himself and the Capitol at your disposal. I know
that Jervis doesn't like him, but Jervis ought to get over his baseless
prejudices against politicians. Who knows? I may be entering politics
myself some day.


My dear Judy:

We do receive the most amazing presents from our friends and
benefactors. Listen to this. Last week Mr. Wilton J. Leverett (I quote
from his card) ran over a broken bottle outside our gate, and came in
to visit the institution while his chauffeur was mending the tire. Betsy
showed him about. He took an intelligent interest in everything he saw,
particularly our new camps. That is an exhibit which appeals to men.
He ended by removing his coat, and playing baseball with two tribes
of Indians. After an hour and a half he suddenly looked at his watch,
begged for a glass of water, and bowed himself off.

We had entirely forgotten the episode until this afternoon, when the
expressman drove up to the door with a present for the John Grier
Home from the chemical laboratories of Wilton J. Leverett. It was a
barrel--well, anyway, a good sized keg--full of liquid green soap!

Did I tell you that the seeds for our garden came from Washington?
A polite present from Gordon Hallock and the U. S. Government. As an
example of what the past regime did not accomplish, Martin Schladerwitz,
who has spent three years on this pseudo farm, knew no more than to dig
a grave two feet deep and bury his lettuce seeds!

Oh, you can't imagine the number of fields in which we need making over;
but of course you, of all people, can imagine. Little by little I am
getting my eyes wide open, and things that just looked funny to me at
first, now--oh dear! It's very disillusionizing. Every funny thing that
comes up seems to have a little tragedy wrapped inside it.

Just at present we are paying anxious attention to our manners--not
orphan asylum manners, but dancing school manners. There is to be
nothing Uriah Heepish about our attitude toward the world. The little
girls make curtseys when they shake hands, and the boys remove caps and
rise when a lady stands, and push in chairs at the table. (Tommy Woolsey
shot Sadie Kate into her soup yesterday, to the glee of all observers
except Sadie, who is an independent young damsel and doesn't care for
these useless masculine attentions.) At first the boys were inclined to
jeer, but after observing the politeness of their hero, Percy de Forest
Witherspoon, they have come up to the mark like little gentlemen.

Punch is paying a call this morning. For the last half-hour, while I
have been busily scratching away to you, he has been established in the
window seat, quietly and undestructively engaged with colored pencils.
Betsy, EN PASSANT, just dropped a kiss upon his nose.

"Aw, gwan!" said Punch, blushing quite pink, and wiping off the caress
with a fine show of masculine indifference. But I notice he has resumed
work upon his red-and-green landscape with heightened ardor and an
attempt at whistling. We'll succeed yet in conquering that young man's
temper.


Tuesday.


The doctor is in a very grumbly mood today. He called just as the
children were marching in to dinner, whereupon he marched, too, and
sampled their food, and, oh, my dear! the potatoes were scorched! And
such a clishmaclaver as that man made! It is the first time the potatoes
ever have been scorched, and you know that scorching sometimes happens
in the best of families. But you would think from Sandy's language that
the cook had scorched them on purpose, in accordance with my orders.

As I have told you before, I could do very nicely without Sandy.


Wednesday.


Yesterday being a wonderful sunny day, Betsy and I turned our backs upon
duty and motored to the very fancy home of some friends of hers, where
we had tea in an Italian garden. Punch and Sadie Kate had been SUCH good
children all day that at the last moment we telephoned for permission to
include them, too.

"Yes, indeed, do bring the little dears," was the enthusiastic response.

But the choice of Punch and Sadie Kate was a mistake. We ought to have
taken Mamie Prout, who has demonstrated her ability to sit. I shall
spare you the details of our visit; the climax was reached when Punch
went goldfishing in the bottom of the swimming pool. Our host pulled him
out by an agitated leg, and the child returned to the asylum swathed in
that gentleman's rose-colored bathrobe.

What do you think? Dr. Robin MacRae, in a contrite mood for having been
so intensely disagreeable yesterday, has just invited Betsy and me
to take supper in his olive-green house next Sunday evening at seven
o'clock in order to look at some microscopic slides. The entertainment,
I believe, is to consist of a scarlet-fever culture, some alcoholic
tissue, and a tubercular gland. These social attentions bore him
excessively; but he realizes that if he is to have free scope in
applying his theories to the institution he must be a little polite to
its superintendent.

I have just read this letter over, and I must admit that it skips
lightly from topic to topic. But though it may not contain news of any
great moment, I trust you will realize that its writing has consumed
every vacant minute during the last three days. I am,

Most fully occupied,

SALLIE McBRIDE.

P.S. A blessed woman came this morning and said she would take a child
for the summer--one of the sickest, weakest, neediest babies I could
give her. She had just lost her husband, and wanted something HARD to
do. Isn't that really very touching?


Saturday afternoon.

Dear Judy and Jervis:

Brother Jimmie (we are very alliterative!), spurred on by sundry begging
letters from me, has at last sent us a present; but he picked it out
himself.

WE HAVE A MONKEY! His name is Java. The children no longer hear the
school bell ring. On the day the creature came, this entire institution
formed in line and filed past and shook his paw. Poor Sing's nose is out
of joint. I have to PAY to have him washed.

Sadie Kate is developing into my private secretary. I have her answer
the thank-you letters for the institution, and her literary style is
making a hit among our benefactors. She invariably calls out a second
gift. I had hitherto believed that the Kilcoyne family sprang from
the wild west of Ireland, but I begin to suspect that their source was
nearer Blarney Castle. You can see from the inclosed copy of the letter
she sent to Jimmie what a persuasive pen the young person has. I
trust that in this case at least, it will not bear the fruit that she
suggests.


Dear Mr. Jimie

We thank you very much for the lovly monkey you give. We name him java
because that's a warm iland across the ocian where he was born up in a
nest like a bird only big the doctor told us.

The first day he come every boy and girl shook his hand and said good
morning java his hand feels funny he holds so tite. I was afraid to
touch him but now I let him sit on my shoulder and put his arms around
my kneck if he wants to. He makes a funny noise that sounds like swering
and gets mad when his tale is puled.

We love him dearly and we love you two.

The next time you have to give a present, please send an elifant. Well I
guess Ill stop.

Yours truly,

SADIE KATE KILCOYNE.



Percy de Forest Witherspoon is still faithful to his little followers,
though I am so afraid he will get tired that I urge him to take frequent
vacations. He has not only been faithful himself, but has brought in
recruits. He has large social connections in the neighborhood, and last
Saturday evening he introduced two friends, nice men who sat around the
campfire and swapped hunting stories.

One of them was just back from around the world, and told hair-raising
anecdotes of the head hunters of Sarawak, a narrow pink country on the
top of Borneo. My little braves pant to grow up and get to Sarawak, and
go out on the war-path after head hunters. Every encyclopedia in this
institution has been consulted, and there isn't a boy here who cannot
tell you the history, manners, climate, flora, and fungi of Borneo.
I only wish Mr. Witherspoon would introduce friends who had been head
hunting in England, France, and Germany, countries not quite so CHIC as
Sarawak, but more useful for general culture.

We have a new cook, the fourth since my reign began. I haven't bothered
you with my cooking troubles, but institutions don't escape any
more than families. The last is a negro woman, a big, fat, smiling,
chocolate-colored creature from Souf Ca'lina. And ever since she came
on honey dew we've fed! Her name is--what do you guess? SALLIE, if you
please. I suggested that she change it.

"Sho, Miss, I's had dat name Sallie longer'n you, an' I couldn't get
used nohow to answerin' up pert-like when you sings out `Mollie!' Seems
like Sallie jest b'longs to me."

So "Sallie" she remains; but at least there is no danger of our getting
our letters mixed, for her last name is nothing so plebeian as McBride.
It's Johnston-Washington, with a hyphen.

Sunday.


Our favorite game of late is finding pet names for Sandy. His austere
presence lends itself to caricature. We have just originated a new
batch. The "Laird o' Cockpen" is Percy's choice.

The Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi'
the things of the state.

Miss Snaith disgustedly calls him "that man," and Betsy refers to him
(in his absence) as "Dr. Cod-Liver." My present favorite is "Macphairson
Clon Glocketty Angus McClan." But for real poetic feeling, Sadie Kate
beats us all. She calls him "Mister Someday Soon." I don't believe that
the doctor ever dropped into verse but once in his life, but every child
in this institution knows that one poem by heart.

Someday soon something nice is going to happen;

Be a good little girl and take this hint: Swallow with a smile your
cod-liver ile,

And the first thing you know you will have a peppermint.


It's this evening that Betsy and I attend his supper party, and I
confess that we are looking forward to seeing the interior of his gloomy
mansion with gleeful eagerness. He never talks about himself or his past
or anybody connected with himself. He appears to be an isolated figure
standing on a pedestal labeled S C I E N C E, without a glimmer of any
ordinary affections or emotions or human frailties except temper. Betsy
and I are simply eaten up with curiosity to know what sort of past he
came out of; but just let us get inside his house, and to our detective
senses it will tell its own story. So long as the portal was guarded
by a fierce McGurk, we had despaired of ever effecting an entrance; but
now, behold! The door has opened of its own accord.

To be continued.

S. McB.


Monday.

Dear Judy:

We attended the doctor's supper party last night, Betsy and Mr.
Witherspoon and I. It turned out a passably cheerful occasion, though I
will say that it began under heavy auspices.

His house on the inside is all that the outside promises. Never in my
life have I seen such an interior as that man's dining room. The walls
and carpets and lambrequins are a heavy dark green. A black marble
mantelpiece shelters a few smoking black coals. The furniture is
as nearly black as furniture comes. The decorations are two steel
engravings in shiny black frames--the "Monarch of the Glen," and the
"Stag at Bay."

We tried hard to be light and sparkling, but it was like eating supper
in the family vault. Mrs. McGurk, in black alpaca with a black silk
apron, clumped around the table, passing cold, heavy things to eat, with
a step so firm that she rattled the silver in the sideboard drawers. Her
nose was up, and her mouth was down. She clearly does not approve of the
master's entertaining, and she wishes to discourage all guests from ever
accepting again.

Sandy sort of dimly knows that there is something the matter with his
house, and in order to brighten it up a bit in honor of his guests,
he had purchased flowers,--dozens of them,--the most exquisite pink
Killarney roses and red and yellow tulips. The McGurk had wedged them
all together as tight as they would fit into a peacock-blue jardiniere,
and plumped it down in the center of the table. The thing was as big as
a bushel-basket. Betsy and I nearly forgot our manners when we saw
that centerpiece; but the doctor seemed so innocently pleased at
having obtained a bright note in his dining room that we suppressed our
amusement and complimented him warmly upon his happy color scheme.

The moment supper was over, we hastened with relief to his own part of
the house, where the McGurk's influence does not penetrate. No one in a
cleaning capacity ever enters either his library or office or laboratory
except Llewelyn, a short, wiry, bow-legged Welshman, who combines to a
unique degree the qualities of chambermaid and chauffeur.

The library, though not the most cheerful room I have ever seen,
still, for a man's house, is not so bad--books all around from floor to
ceiling, with the overflow in piles on floor and table and mantelpiece;
half a dozen abysmal leather chairs and a rug or so, with another black
marble mantelpiece, but this time containing a crackling wood fire. By
way of bric-a-brac, he has a stuffed pelican and a crane with a frog in
its mouth, also a raccoon sitting on a log, and a varnished tarpon. A
faint suggestion of iodoform floats in the air.

The doctor made the coffee himself in a French machine, and we dismissed
his housekeeper from our spirits. He really did do his best to be a
thoughtful host and I have to report that the word "insanity" was not
once mentioned. It seems that Sandy, in his moments of relaxation, is a
fisherman. He and Percy began swapping stories of salmon and trout, and
he finally got out his case of fishing flies, and gallantly presented
Betsy and me with a "silver doctor" and a "Jack Scott" out of which
to make hatpins. Then the conversation wandered to sport on the Scotch
moors, and he told about one time when he was lost, and spent the night
out in the heather. There is no doubt about it, Sandy's heart is in the
highlands.

I am afraid that Betsy and I have wronged him. Though it is hard to
relinquish the interesting idea, he may not, after all, have committed a
crime. We are now leaning to the belief that he was crossed in love.

It's really horrid of me to make fun of poor Sandy, for, despite his
stern bleakness of disposition, he's a pathetic figure of a man. Think
of coming home after an anxious day's round to eat a solitary dinner in
that grim dining room!

Do you suppose it would cheer him up a little if I should send my
company of artists to paint a frieze of rabbits around the wall?

With love, as usual,

SALLIE.


Dear Judy:

Aren't you ever coming back to New York? Please hurry! I need a new hat,
and am desirous of shopping for it on Fifth Avenue, not on Water Street.
Mrs. Gruby, our best milliner, does not believe in slavishly following
Paris Fashions; she originates her own styles. But three years ago, as
a great concession to convention, she did make a tour of the New York
shops, and is still creating models on the uplift of that visit.

Also, besides my own hat, I must buy 113 hats for my children, to say
nothing of shoes and knickerbockers and shirts and hair-ribbons and
stockings and garters. It's quite a task to keep a little family like
mine decently clothed.

Did you get that big letter I wrote you last week? You never had the
grace to mention it in yours of Thursday, and it was seventeen pages
long, and took me DAYS to write.

Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.

P.S. Why don't you tell me some news about Gordon? Have you seen him,
and did he mention me? Is he running after any of those pretty Southern
girls that Washington is so full of? You know that I want to hear. Why
must you be so beastly uncommunicative?


Tuesday, 4:27 P.M.

Dear Judy:

Your telegram came two minutes ago by telephone.

Yes, thank you, I shall be delighted to arrive at 5:49 on Thursday
afternoon. And don't make any engagements for that evening, please, as
I intend to sit up until midnight talking John Grier gossip with you and
the president.

Friday and Saturday and Monday I shall have to devote to shopping. Oh,
yes, you're right; I already possess more clothes than any jailbird
needs, but when spring comes, I must have new plumage. As it is, I wear
an evening gown every night just to wear them out--no, not entirely
that; to make myself believe that I'm still an ordinary girl despite
this extraordinary life that you have pushed me into.

The Hon. Cy found me yesterday arrayed in a Nile-green crepe (Jane's
creation, though it looked Parisian). He was quite puzzled when he found
I wasn't going to a ball. I invited him to stay and dine with me, and
he accepted! We got on very affably. He expands over his dinner. Food
appears to agree with him. If there's any Bernard Shaw in New York just
now, I believe that I might spare a couple of hours Saturday afternoon
for a matinee. G. B. S.'s dialogue would afford such a life-giving
contrast to the Hon. Cy's.

There's no use writing any more; I'll wait and talk.

ADDIO.

SALLIE.

P.S. Oh dear! just as I had begun to catch glimmerings of niceness in
Sandy, he broke out again and was ABOMINABLE. We unfortunately have five
cases of measles in this institution, and the man's manner suggests that
Miss Snaith and I gave the measles to the children on purpose to make
him trouble. There are many days when I should be willing to accept our
doctor's resignation.


Wednesday.

Dear Enemy:

Your brief and dignified note of yesterday is at hand. I have never
known anybody whose literary style resembled so exactly his spoken word.

And you will be greatly obliged if I will drop my absurd fashion of
calling you "Enemy"? I will drop my absurd fashion of calling you
Enemy just as soon as you drop your absurd fashion of getting angry and
abusive and insulting the moment any little thing goes wrong.

I am leaving tomorrow afternoon to spend four days in New York.

Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.


CHEZ THE PENDLETONS, New York. My dear Enemy:

I trust that this note will find you in a more affable frame of mind
than when I saw you last. I emphatically repeat that it was not due to
the carelessness of the superintendent of our institution that those two
new cases of measles crept in, but rather to the unfortunate anatomy
of our old-fashioned building, which does not permit of the proper
isolation of contagious cases.

As you did not deign to visit us yesterday morning before I left, I
could not offer any parting suggestions. I therefore write to ask that
you cast your critical eye upon Mamie Prout. She is covered all over
with little red spots which may be measles, though I am hoping not.
Mamie spots very easily.

I return to prison life next Monday at six o'clock.

Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.

P.S. I trust you will pardon my mentioning it, but you are not the kind
of doctor that I admire. I like them chubby and round and smiling.


THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

June 9.

Dear Judy:

You are an awful family for an impressionable young girl to visit.
How can you expect me to come back and settle down contentedly to
institution life after witnessing such a happy picture of domestic
concord as the Pendleton household presents?

All the way back in the train, instead of occupying myself with two
novels, four magazines, and one box of chocolates that your husband
thoughtfully provided, I spent the time in a mental review of the young
men of my acquaintance to see if I couldn't discover one as nice as
Jervis. I did! (A little nicer, I think.) From this day on he is the
marked-down victim, the destined prey.

I shall hate to give up the asylum after getting so excited over it,
but unless you are willing to move it to the capital, I don't see any
alternative.

The train was awfully late. We sat and smoked on a siding while two
accommodations and a freight dashed past. I think we must have broken
something, and had to tinker up our engine. The conductor was soothing,
but uncommunicative.

It was 7:30 when I descended, the only passenger, at our insignificant
station in the pitch darkness and RAIN, without an umbrella, and wearing
that precious new hat. No Turnfelt to meet me; not even a station hack.
To be sure, I hadn't telegraphed the exact time of my arrival, but,
still, I did feel rather neglected. I had sort of vaguely expected all
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN to be drawn up by the platform, scattering
flowers and singing songs of welcome. Just as I was telling the station
man that I would watch his telegraph instrument while he ran across
to the corner saloon and telephoned for a vehicle, there came whirling
around the corner two big searchlights aimed straight at me. They
stopped nine inches before running me down, and I heard Sandy's voice
saying:

"Weel, weel, Miss Sallie McBride! I'm thinking it's ower time you came
back to tak' the bit bairns off my hands."

That man had come three times to meet me on the off chance of the
train's getting in some time. He tucked me and my new hat and bags and
books and chocolates all in under his waterproof flap, and we splashed
off. Really, I felt as if I was getting back home again, and quite sad
at the thought of ever having to leave. Mentally, you see, I had already
resigned and packed and gone. The mere idea that you are not in a place
for the rest of your life gives you an awfully unstable feeling. That's
why trial marriages would never work. You've got to feel you're in a
thing irrevocably and forever in order to buckle down and really put
your whole mind into making it a success.

It's astounding how much news can accrue in four days. Sandy just
couldn't talk fast enough to tell me everything I wanted to hear.
Among other items, I learned that Sadie Kate had spent two days in the
infirmary, her malady being, according to the doctor's diagnosis, half a
jar of gooseberry jam and Heaven knows how many doughnuts. Her work had
been changed during my absence to dishwashing in the officers' pantry,
and the juxtaposition of so many exotic luxuries was too much for her
fragile virtue.

Also, our colored cook Sallie and our colored useful man Noah have
entered upon a war of extermination. The original trouble was over a
little matter of kindling, augmented by a pail of hot water that Sallie
threw out of the window with, for a woman, unusual accuracy of aim. You
can see what a rare character the head of an orphan asylum must
have. She has to combine the qualities of a baby nurse and a police
magistrate.

The doctor had told only the half when we reached the house, and as
he had not yet dined, owing to meeting me three times, I begged him
to accept the hospitality of the John Grier. I would get Betsy and Mr.
Witherspoon, and we would hold an executive meeting, and settle all our
neglected businesses.

Sandy accepted with flattering promptness. He likes to dine outside of
the family vault.

But Betsy, I found, had dashed home to greet a visiting grandparent,
and Percy was playing bridge in the village. It's seldom the young thing
gets out of an evening, and I'm glad for him to have a little cheerful
diversion.

So it ended in the doctor's and my dining tete-a-tete on a hastily
improvised dinner,--it was then close upon eight, and our normal dinner
hour is 6:30,--but it was such an improvised dinner as I am sure
Mrs. McGurk never served him. Sallie, wishing to impress me with her
invaluableness, did her absolutely Southern best. And after dinner we
had coffee before the fire in my comfortable blue library, while the
wind howled outside and the shutters banged.

We passed a most cordial and intimate evening. For the first time
since our acquaintance I struck a new note in the man. There really is
something attractive about him when you once come to know him. But the
process of knowing him requires time and tact. He's no' very gleg at the
uptak. I've never seen such a tantalizing inexplicable person. All the
time I'm talking to him I feel as though behind his straight line of a
mouth and his half-shut eyes there were banked fires smoldering inside.
Are you sure he hasn't committed a crime? He does manage to convey the
delicious feeling that he has.

And I must add that Sandy's not so bad a talker when he lets himself go.
He has the entire volume of Scotch literature at his tongue's end.

"Little kens the auld wife as she sits by the fire what the wind is
doing on Hurly-Burly-Swire," he observed as a specially fierce blast
drove the rain against the window. That sounds pat, doesn't it? I
haven't, though, the remotest idea what it means. And listen to this:
between cups of coffee (he drinks far too much coffee for a sensible
medical man) he casually let fall the news that his family knew the R.
L. S. family personally, and used to take supper at 17 Heriot Row! I
tended him assiduously for the rest of the evening in a Did you once see
Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you? frame of mind.

When I started this letter, I had no intention of filling it with a
description of the recently excavated charms of Robin MacRae; it's just
by way of remorseful apology. He was so nice and companionable last
night that I have been going about today feeling conscience-smitten at
the thought of how mercilessly I made fun of him to you and Jervis. I
really didn't mean quite all of the impolite things that I said. About
once a month the man is sweet and tractable and engaging.

Punch has just been paying a social call, and during the course of it
he lost three little toadlings an inch long. Sadie Kate recovered one of
them from under the bookcase, but the other two hopped away; and I'm so
afraid they've taken sanctuary in my bed! I do wish that mice and snakes
and toads and angleworms were not so portable. You never know what is
going on in a perfectly respectable-looking child's pocket.

I had a beautiful visit in Casa Pendleton. Don't forget your promise to
return it soon.

Yours as ever,

SALLIE.

P.S. I left a pair of pale-blue bedroom slippers under the bed. Will
you please have Mary wrap them up and mail them to me? And hold her
hand while she writes the address. She spelt my name on the place cards
"Mackbird."


Tuesday.

Dear Enemy:

As I told you, I left an application for an accomplished nurse with the
employment bureau of New York.


Wanted! A nurse maid with an ample lap suitable for the accommodation of
seventeen babies at once.


She came this afternoon, and this is the fine figure of a woman that I
drew!

We couldn't keep a baby from sliding off her lap unless we fastened him
firmly with safety pins.

Please give Sadie Kate the magazine. I'll read it tonight and return it
tomorrow.

Was there ever a more docile and obedient pupil than

S. McBRIDE?


Thursday. My dear Judy:

I've been spending the last three days busily getting under way all
those latest innovations that we planned in New York. Your word is law.
A public cooky jar has been established.

Also, the eighty play boxes have been ordered. It is a wonderful
idea, having a private box for each child, where he can store up his
treasures. The ownership of a little personal property will help develop
them into 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."

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 fiddle-strings; 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 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.


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,

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 down at all, it will be suddenly and with an awful bump. But
I honestly didn't realize that it had been three weeks since I wrote.
Please excuse!

Also, my dear sir, I have to bring you to account. You were in New York
last week, and you never ran up to see us. You thought we wouldn't find
it out, but we heard--and are insulted.

Would you like an outline of my day's activities? Wrote monthly report
for trustees' meeting. Audited accounts. Entertained agent of State
Charities Aid Association for luncheon. Supervised children's menus for
next ten days. Dictated five letters to families who have our children.
Visited our little feeble-minded Loretta Higgins (pardon the reference;
I know you don't like me to mention the feeble-minded), who is being
boarded out in a nice comfortable family, where she is learning to work.
Came back to tea and a conference with the doctor about sending a child
with tubercular glands to a sanatorium. Read an article on cottage
VERSUS congregate system for housing dependent children. (We do need
cottages! I wish you'd send us a few for a Christmas present.) And now
at nine o'clock I'm sleepily beginning a letter to you. Do you know many
young society girls who can point to such a useful day as that?

Oh, I forgot to say that I stole ten minutes from my accounts this
morning to install a new cook. Our Sallie Washington-Johnston, who
cooked fit for the angels had a dreadful, dreadful temper and terrorized
poor Noah, our super-excellent furnace man, to the point of giving
notice. We couldn't spare Noah. He's more useful to the institution than
its superintendent, and so Sallie Washington-Johnston is no more.

When I asked the new cook her name, she replied, "Ma name is Suzanne
Estelle, but ma friends call me Pet." Pet cooked the dinner tonight,
but I must say that she lacks Sallie's delicate touch. I am awfully
disappointed that you didn't visit us while Sallie was still here. You
would have taken away an exalted opinion of my housekeeping.


Drowsiness overcame me at that point, and it's now two days later.

Poor neglected Gordon! It has just occurred to me that you never got
thanked for the modeling clay which came two weeks ago, and it was
such an unusually intelligent present that I should have telegraphed my
appreciation. When I opened the box and saw all that nice messy putty
stuff, I sat down on the spot and created a statue of Singapore. The
children love it; and it is very good to have the handicraft side of
their training encouraged.

After a careful study of American history, I have determined that
nothing is so valuable to a future president as an early obligatory
unescapable performance of CHORES.

Therefore I have divided the daily work of this institution into a
hundred parcels, and the children rotate weekly through a succession of
unaccustomed tasks. Of course they do everything badly, for just as they
learn how, they progress to something new. It would be infinitely easier
for us to follow Mrs. Lippett's immoral custom of keeping each child
sentenced for life to a well-learned routine; but when the temptation
assails me, I recall the dreary picture of Florence Henty, who polished
the brass doorknobs of this institution for seven years--and I sternly
shove the children on.

I get angry every time I think of Mrs Lippett. She had exactly the
point of view of a Tammany politician--no slightest sense of service to
society. Her only interest in the John Grier Home was to get a living
out of it.


Wednesday.


What new branch of learning do you think I have introduced into my
asylum? Table manners!

I never had any idea that it was such a lot of trouble to teach children
how to eat and drink. Their favorite method is to put their mouths down
to their mugs and lap their milk like kittens. Good manners are not
merely snobbish ornaments, as Mrs. Lippett's regime appeared to believe.
They mean self-discipline and thought for others, and my children have
got to learn them.

That woman never allowed them to talk at their meals, and I am having
the most dreadful time getting any conversation out of them above a
frightened whisper. So I have instituted the custom of the entire staff,
myself included, sitting with them at the table, and directing the talk
along cheerful and improving lines.

Also I have established a small, very strict training table, where
the little dears, in relays, undergo a week of steady badgering. Our
uplifting table conversations run like this:

"Yes, Tom, Napoleon Bonaparte was a very great man--elbows off the
table. He possessed a tremendous power of concentrating his mind on
whatever he wanted to have; and that is the way to accomplish--don't
snatch, Susan; ask politely for the bread, and Carrie will pass it to
you.--But he was an example of the fact that selfish thought just for
oneself, without considering the lives of others, will come to disaster
in the--Tom! Keep your mouth shut when you chew--and after the battle
of Waterloo--let Sadie's cooky alone--his fall was all the greater
because--Sadie Kate, you may leave the table. It makes no difference
what he did. Under no provocation does a lady slap a gentleman."


Two more days have passed; this is the same kind of meandering letter I
write to Judy. At least, my dear man, you can't complain that I haven't
been thinking about you this week! I know you hate to be told all about
the asylum, but I can't help it, for it's all I know. I don't have five
minutes a day to read the papers. The big outside world has dropped
away. My interests all lie on the inside of this little iron inclosure.

I am at present,

S. McBRIDE,

Superintendent of the

John Grier Home.


Thursday.

Dear Enemy:

"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in." Hasn't that a very
philosophical, detached, Lord of the Universe sound? It comes from
Thoreau, whom I am assiduously reading at present. As you see, I have
revolted against your literature and taken to my own again. The last
two evenings have been devoted to "Walden," a book as far removed as
possible from the problems of the dependent child.

Did you ever read old Henry David Thoreau? You really ought. I think
you'd find him a congenial soul. Listen to this: "Society is commonly
too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to
acquire any new value for each other. It would be better if there were
but one habitation to a square mile, as where I live." A pleasant,
expansive, neebor-like man he must have been! He minds me in some ways
o' Sandy.

This is to tell you that we have a placing-out agent visiting us. She is
about to dispose of four chicks, one of them Thomas Kehoe. What do you
think? Ought we to risk it? The place she has in mind for him is a farm
in a no-license portion of Connecticut, where he will work hard for
his board, and live in the farmer's family. It sounds exactly the right
thing, and we can't keep him here forever; he'll have to be turned out
some day into a world full of whisky.

I'm sorry to tear you away from that cheerful work on "Dementia Precox,"
but I'd be most obliged if you'd drop in here toward eight o'clock for a
conference with the agent.

I am, as usual,

S. McBRIDE.


June 17. My dear Judy:

Betsy has perpetrated a most unconscionable trick upon a pair of
adopting parents. They have traveled East from Ohio in their touring car
for the dual purpose of seeing the country and picking up a daughter.
They appear to be the leading citizens of their town, whose name at
the moment escapes me; but it's a very important town. It has electric
lights and gas, and Mr. Leading Citizen owns the controlling interest
in both plants. With a wave of his hand he could plunge that entire town
into darkness; but fortunately he's a kind man, and won't do anything so
harsh, not even if they fail to reelect him mayor. He lives in a brick
house with a slate roof and two towers, and has a deer and fountain and
lots of nice shade trees in the yard. (He carries its photograph in his
pocket.) They are good-natured, generous, kind-hearted, smiling people,
and a little fat; you can see what desirable parents they would make.

Well, we had exactly the daughter of their dreams, only, as they came
without giving us notice, she was dressed in a flannellet nightgown, and
her face was dirty. They looked Caroline over, and were not impressed;
but they thanked us politely, and said they would bear her in mind. They
wanted to visit the New York Orphanage before deciding. We knew well
that, if they saw that superior assemblage of children, our poor little
Caroline would never have a chance.

Then Betsy rose to the emergency. She graciously invited them to motor
over to her house for tea that afternoon and inspect one of our little
wards who would be visiting her baby niece. Mr. and Mrs. Leading Citizen
do not know many people in the East, and they haven't been receiving the
invitations that they feel are their due; so they were quite innocently
pleased at the prospect of a little social diversion. The moment they
had retired to the hotel for luncheon, Betsy called up her car, and
rushed baby Caroline over to her house. She stuffed her into baby
niece's best pink-and-white embroidered frock, borrowed a hat of Irish
lace, some pink socks and white slippers, and set her picturesquely
upon the green lawn under a spreading beech tree. A white-aproned nurse
(borrowed also from baby niece) plied her with bread and milk and gaily
colored toys. By the time prospective parents arrived, our Caroline,
full of food and contentment, greeted them with cooes of delight. From
the moment their eyes fell upon her they were ravished with desire.
Not a suspicion crossed their unobservant minds that this sweet little
rosebud was the child of the morning. And so, a few formalities having
been complied with, it really looks as though baby Caroline would live
in the Towers and grow into a leading citizen.

I must really get to work, without any further delay, upon the burning
question of new clothes for our girls.

With the highest esteem, I am, D'r Ma'am, Y'r most ob'd't and h'mble
serv't,

SAL. McBRIDE.


June 19th. My dearest Judy:

Listen to the grandest innovation of all, and one that will delight your
heart.

NO MORE BLUE GINGHAM!


Feeling that this aristocratic neighborhood of country estates might
contain valuable food for our asylum, I have of late been moving in
the village social circles, and at a luncheon yesterday I dug out a
beautiful and charming widow who wears delectable, flowing gowns that
she designs herself. She confided to me that she would have loved to
have been a dressmaker, if she had only been born with a needle in her
mouth instead of a golden spoon. She says she never sees a pretty girl
badly dressed but she longs to take her in hand and make her over. Did
you ever hear anything so apropos? From the moment she opened her lips
she was a marked man.

"I can show you fifty-nine badly dressed girls," said I to her, "and you
have got to come back with me and plan their new clothes and make them
beautiful."

She expostulated; but in vain. I led her out to her automobile, shoved
her in, and murmured, "John Grier Home" to the chauffeur. The first
inmate our eyes fell upon was Sadie Kate, just fresh, I judge, from
hugging the molasses barrel; and a shocking spectacle she was for any
esthetically minded person. In addition to the stickiness, one stocking
was coming down, her pinafore was buttoned crookedly, and she had lost a
hair-ribbon. But--as always--completely at ease, she welcomed us with a
cheery grin, and offered the lady a sticky paw.

"Now," said I, in triumph, "you see how much we need you. What can you
do to make Sadie Kate beautiful?"

"Wash her," said Mrs. Livermore.

Sadie Kate was marched to my bathroom. When the scrubbing was finished
and the hair strained back and the stocking restored to seemly heights,
I returned her for a second inspection--a perfectly normal little
orphan. Mrs. Livermore turned her from side to side, and studied her
long and earnestly.

Sadie Kate by nature is a beauty, a wild, dark, Gypsyish little colleen.
She looks fresh from the wind-swept moors of Connemara. But, oh, we
have managed to rob her of her birthright with this awful institution
uniform!

After five minutes' silent contemplation, Mrs. Livermore raised her eyes
to mine.

"Yes, my dear, you need me."

And then and there we formed our plans. She is to head the committee
on C L O T H E S. She is to choose three friends to help her. And they,
with the two dozen best sewers among the girls and our sewing-teacher
and five sewing machines, are going to make over the looks of this
institution. And the charity is all on our side. We are supplying Mrs.
Livermore with the profession that Providence robbed her of. Wasn't it
clever of me to find her? I woke this morning at dawn and crowed!

Lots more news,--I could run into a second volume,--but I am going to
send this letter to town by Mr. Witherspoon, who, in a very high collar
and the blackest of evening clothes, is on the point of departure for a
barn dance at the country club. I told him to pick out the nicest girls
he danced with to come and tell stories to my children.

It is dreadful, the scheming person I am getting to be. All the time I
am talking to any one, I am silently thinking, "What use can you be to
my asylum?"

There is grave danger that this present superintendent will become so
interested in her job that she will never want to leave. I sometimes
picture her a white-haired old lady, propelled about the building in
a wheeled chair, but still tenaciously superintending her fourth
generation of orphans.

PLEASE discharge her before that day!

Yours,

SALLIE.


Friday.

Dear Judy:

Yesterday morning, without the slightest warning, a station hack drove
up to the door and disgorged upon the steps two men, two little boys, a
baby girl, a rocking horse, and a Teddy bear, and then drove off!

The men were artists, and the little ones were children of another
artist, dead three weeks ago. They had brought the mites to us because
they thought "John Grier" sounded solid and respectable, and not like a
public institution. It had never entered their unbusinesslike heads that
any formality is necessary about placing a child in an asylum.

I explained that we were full, but they seemed so stranded and aghast,
that I told them to sit down while I advised them what to do. So the
chicks were sent to the nursery, 

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