Dear Enemy

"Mr. and Mrs. First Robin have returned from a trip to Florida. It is

hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Jervis Pendleton will arrive shortly."

Even up here in our dilatory Dutchess County the breeze smells green.

It makes you want to be out and away, roaming the hills, or else down on

your knees grubbing in the dirt. Isn't it funny what farmering instincts

the budding spring awakens in even the most urban souls?

I have spent the morning making plans for little private gardens for

every child over nine. The big potato field is doomed. That is the only

feasible spot for sixty-two private gardens. It is near enough to be

watched from the north windows, and yet far enough away, so that their

messing will not injure our highly prized landscape lawn. Also the earth

is rich, and they have some chance of success. I don't want the poor

little chicks to scratch all summer, and then not turn up any treasure

in the end. In order to furnish an incentive, I shall announce that

the institution will buy their produce and pay in real money, though I

foresee we shall be buried under a mountain of radishes.

I do so want to develop self-reliance and initiative in these children,

two sturdy qualities in which they are conspicuously lacking (with the

exception of Sadie Kate and a few other bad ones). Children who have

spirit enough to be bad I consider very hopeful. It's those who are good

just from inertia that are discouraging.

The last few days have been spent mainly in charming the devil out of

Punch, an interesting task if I could devote my whole time to it.

But with one hundred and seven other little devils to charm away, my

attention is sorely deflected.

The awful thing about this life is that whatever I am doing, the other

things that I am not doing, but ought to be, keep tugging at my skirts.

There is no doubt but Punch's personal devil needs the whole attention

of a whole person,--preferably two persons,--so that they could spell

each other and get some rest.

Sadie Kate has just flown in from the nursery with news of a scarlet

goldfish (Gordon's gift) swallowed by one of our babies. Mercy! the

number of calamities that can occur in an orphan asylum!

9 P.M.

My children are in bed, and I've just had a thought. Wouldn't it be

heavenly if the hibernating system prevailed among the human young?

There would be some pleasure in running an asylum if one could just tuck

the little darlings into bed the first of October and keep them there

until the twenty-second of April.