Dear Enemy

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.