Dear Enemy

I am pleased to say that I gave that indignant deacon and his wife such

a thorough scolding as I am sure they have never listened to from the

pulpit. I borrowed some vigorous bits from Sandy's vocabulary, and sent

them home quite humbled. As for poor little Hattie, here she is back

again, after going out with such high hopes. It has an awfully bad moral

effect on a child to be returned to the asylum in disgrace, especially

when she wasn't aware of committing a crime. It gives her a feeling that

the world is full of unknown pitfalls, and makes her afraid to take

a step. I must bend all my energies now toward finding another set of

parents for her, and ones that haven't grown so old and settled and good

that they have entirely forgotten their own childhood.

Sunday.

I forgot to tell you that our new farmer is here, Turnfelt by name; and

his wife is a love, yellow hair and dimples. If she were an orphan,

I could place her in a minute. We can't let her go to waste. I have

a beautiful plan of building an addition to the farmer's cottage, and

establishing under her comfortable care a sort of brooding-house where

we can place our new little chicks, to make sure they haven't anything

contagious and to eliminate as much profanity as possible before turning

them loose among our other perfect chicks.

How does that strike you? It is very necessary in an institution as full

of noise and movement and stir as this to have some isolated spot where

we can put cases needing individual attention. Some of our children

have inherited nerves, and a period of quiet contemplation is indicated.

Isn't my vocabulary professional and scientific? Daily intercourse with

Dr. Robin MacRae is extremely educational.

Since Turnfelt came, you should see our pigs. They are so clean and pink

and unnatural that they don't recognize one another any more as they

pass.

Our potato field is also unrecognizable. It has been divided with string

and pegs into as many squares as a checker-board, and every child has

staked out a claim. Seed catalogues form our only reading matter.

Noah has just returned from a trip to the village for the Sunday papers

to amuse his leisure. Noah is a very cultivated person; he not only

reads perfectly, but he wears tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles while he

does it. He also brought from the post office a letter from you, written

Friday night. I am pained to note that you do not care for "Gosta

Berling" and that Jervis doesn't. The only comment I can make is, "What

a shocking lack of literary taste in the Pendleton family!"