Daddy Long Legs

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.