Now that I am sure you read my letters, I'll make them much more
interesting, so they'll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around
them--only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. I'd hate
to think that you ever read it over.
Thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable Freshman cheerful.
Probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don't know
what it feels like to be alone. But I do.
Goodbye--I'll promise never to be horrid again, because now I know
you're a real person; also I'll promise never to bother you with any
more questions.
Do you still hate girls?
Yours for ever,
Judy
8th hour, Monday
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I hope you aren't the Trustee who sat on the toad? It went off--I was
told--with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter Trustee.
Do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the
laundry windows in the John Grier Home? Every spring when the hoptoad
season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in
those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the
laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. We were
severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of
all discouragement the toads would collect.
And one day--well, I won't bore you with particulars--but somehow, one
of the fattest, biggest, JUCIEST toads got into one of those big
leather arm chairs in the Trustees' room, and that afternoon at the
Trustees' meeting--But I dare say you were there and recall the rest?
Looking back dispassionately after a period of time, I will say that
punishment was merited, and--if I remember rightly--adequate.
I don't know why I am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and
the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct.
The only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact
that no rule exists against it.
After chapel, Thursday What do you think is my favourite book? Just now, I mean; I change
every three days. Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte was quite young
when she wrote it, and had never been outside of Haworth churchyard.
She had never known any men in her life; how COULD she imagine a man
like Heathcliffe?
I couldn't do it, and I'm quite young and never outside the John Grier
Asylum--I've had every chance in the world. Sometimes a dreadful fear
comes over me that I'm not a genius. Will you be awfully disappointed,
Daddy, if I don't turn out to be a great author? In the spring when
everything is so beautiful and green and budding, I feel like turning
my back on lessons, and running away to play with the weather. There
are such lots of adventures out in the fields! It's much more
entertaining to live books than to write them.