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.