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.