Sunday.

Our favorite game of late is finding pet names for Sandy. His austere

presence lends itself to caricature. We have just originated a new

batch. The "Laird o' Cockpen" is Percy's choice.

The Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi'

the things of the state.

Miss Snaith disgustedly calls him "that man," and Betsy refers to him

(in his absence) as "Dr. Cod-Liver." My present favorite is "Macphairson

Clon Glocketty Angus McClan." But for real poetic feeling, Sadie Kate

beats us all. She calls him "Mister Someday Soon." I don't believe that

the doctor ever dropped into verse but once in his life, but every child

in this institution knows that one poem by heart.

Someday soon something nice is going to happen;

Be a good little girl and take this hint: Swallow with a smile your

cod-liver ile,

And the first thing you know you will have a peppermint.

It's this evening that Betsy and I attend his supper party, and I

confess that we are looking forward to seeing the interior of his gloomy

mansion with gleeful eagerness. He never talks about himself or his past

or anybody connected with himself. He appears to be an isolated figure

standing on a pedestal labeled S C I E N C E, without a glimmer of any

ordinary affections or emotions or human frailties except temper. Betsy

and I are simply eaten up with curiosity to know what sort of past he

came out of; but just let us get inside his house, and to our detective

senses it will tell its own story. So long as the portal was guarded

by a fierce McGurk, we had despaired of ever effecting an entrance; but

now, behold! The door has opened of its own accord.

To be continued.

S. McB.

Monday.

Dear Judy:

We attended the doctor's supper party last night, Betsy and Mr.

Witherspoon and I. It turned out a passably cheerful occasion, though I

will say that it began under heavy auspices.

His house on the inside is all that the outside promises. Never in my

life have I seen such an interior as that man's dining room. The walls

and carpets and lambrequins are a heavy dark green. A black marble

mantelpiece shelters a few smoking black coals. The furniture is

as nearly black as furniture comes. The decorations are two steel

engravings in shiny black frames--the "Monarch of the Glen," and the

"Stag at Bay."

We tried hard to be light and sparkling, but it was like eating supper

in the family vault. Mrs. McGurk, in black alpaca with a black silk

apron, clumped around the table, passing cold, heavy things to eat, with

a step so firm that she rattled the silver in the sideboard drawers. Her

nose was up, and her mouth was down. She clearly does not approve of the

master's entertaining, and she wishes to discourage all guests from ever

accepting again.




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