I am not used even yet to being outside the John Grier Home. Whenever

I think of it excited little thrills chase up and down my back. I feel

as though I must run faster and faster and keep looking over my

shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Lippett isn't after me with her arm

stretched out to grab me back.

I don't have to mind any one this summer, do I?

Your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too far

away to do any harm. Mrs. Lippett is dead for ever, so far as I am

concerned, and the Semples aren't expected to overlook my moral

welfare, are they? No, I am sure not. I am entirely grown up. Hooray!

I leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles and

dishes and sofa cushions and books.

Yours ever,

Judy

PS. Here is my physiology exam. Do you think you could have passed?

LOCK WILLOW FARM,

Saturday night

Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,

I've only just come and I'm not unpacked, but I can't wait to tell you

how much I like farms. This is a heavenly, heavenly, HEAVENLY spot!

The house is square like this: And OLD. A hundred years or so. It

has a veranda on the side which I can't draw and a sweet porch in

front. The picture really doesn't do it justice--those things that

look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones that

border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks. It stands on the

top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows to another

line of hills.

That is the way Connecticut goes, in a series of Marcelle waves; and

Lock Willow Farm is just on the crest of one wave. The barns used to

be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of

lightning came from heaven and burnt them down.

The people are Mr. and Mrs. Semple and a hired girl and two hired men.

The hired people eat in the kitchen, and the Semples and Judy in the

dining-room. We had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake

and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper--and a great deal of

conversation. I have never been so entertaining in my life; everything

I say appears to be funny. I suppose it is, because I've never been in

the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive

ignorance.

The room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed, but

the one that I occupy. It's big and square and empty, with adorable

old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on

sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch

them. And a big square mahogany table--I'm going to spend the summer

with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel.




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