And speaking of Sterry, he paid us a social call a few days ago, in
quite a chastened frame of mind. It seems that the "rich city feller"
whose estate he has been managing no longer needs his services; and
Sterry has graciously consented to return to us and let the children
have gardens if they wish. I kindly, but convincingly, declined his
offer.
Friday.
I came back from Pleasantville last night with a heart full of envy.
Please, Mr. President, I want some gray stucco cottages, with Luca
della Robbia figures baked into the front. They have nearly 700 children
there, and all sizable youngsters. Of course that makes a very different
problem from my hundred and seven, ranging from babyhood up. But
I borrowed from their superintendent several very fancy ideas. I'm
dividing my chicks into big and little sisters and brothers, each big
one to have a little one to love and help and fight for. Big sister
Sadie Kate has to see that little sister Gladiola always has her hair
neatly combed and her stockings pulled up and knows her lessons and gets
a touch of petting and her share of candy--very pleasant for Gladiola,
but especially developing for Sadie Kate.
Also I am going to start among our older children a limited form of
self-government such as we had in college. That will help fit them to
go out into the world and govern themselves when they get there. This
shoving children into the world at the age of sixteen seems terribly
merciless. Five of my children are ready to be shoved, but I can't bring
myself to do it. I keep remembering my own irresponsible silly young
self, and wondering what would have happened to me had I been turned out
to work at the age of sixteen!
I must leave you now to write an interesting letter to my politician in
Washington, and it's hard work. What have I to say that will interest a
politician? I can't do anything any more but babble about babies, and
he wouldn't care if every baby was swept from the face of the earth. Oh,
yes, he would, too! I'm afraid I'm slandering him. Babies--at least boy
babies--grow into voters.
Good-by,
SALLIE.
Dearest Judy:
If you expect a cheerful letter from me the day, don't read this.
The life of man is a wintry road. Fog, snow, rain, slush, drizzle,
cold--such weather! such weather! And you in dear Jamaica with the
sunshine and the orange blossoms!
We've got whooping cough, and you can hear us whoop when you get off
the train two miles away. We don't know how we got it--just one of the
pleasures of institution life. Cook has left,--in the night,--what the
Scotch call a "moonlight flitting." I don't know how she got her trunk
away, but it's gone. The kitchen fire went with her. The pipes are
frozen. The plumbers are here, and the kitchen floor is all ripped
up. One of our horses has the spavin. And, to crown all, our cheery,
resourceful Percy is down, down, down in the depths of despair. We have
not been quite certain for three days past whether we could keep him
from suicide. The girl in Detroit,--I knew she was a heartless little
minx,--without so much as going through the formality of sending
back his ring, has gone and married herself to a man and a couple of
automobiles and a yacht. It is the best thing that could ever have
happened to Percy, but it will be a long, long time before he realizes
it.