Dear Enemy

That woman never allowed them to talk at their meals, and I am having

the most dreadful time getting any conversation out of them above a

frightened whisper. So I have instituted the custom of the entire staff,

myself included, sitting with them at the table, and directing the talk

along cheerful and improving lines.

Also I have established a small, very strict training table, where

the little dears, in relays, undergo a week of steady badgering. Our

uplifting table conversations run like this:

"Yes, Tom, Napoleon Bonaparte was a very great man--elbows off the

table. He possessed a tremendous power of concentrating his mind on

whatever he wanted to have; and that is the way to accomplish--don't

snatch, Susan; ask politely for the bread, and Carrie will pass it to

you.--But he was an example of the fact that selfish thought just for

oneself, without considering the lives of others, will come to disaster

in the--Tom! Keep your mouth shut when you chew--and after the battle

of Waterloo--let Sadie's cooky alone--his fall was all the greater

because--Sadie Kate, you may leave the table. It makes no difference

what he did. Under no provocation does a lady slap a gentleman."

Two more days have passed; this is the same kind of meandering letter I

write to Judy. At least, my dear man, you can't complain that I haven't

been thinking about you this week! I know you hate to be told all about

the asylum, but I can't help it, for it's all I know. I don't have five

minutes a day to read the papers. The big outside world has dropped

away. My interests all lie on the inside of this little iron inclosure.

I am at present,

S. McBRIDE,

Superintendent of the

John Grier Home.

Thursday.

Dear Enemy:

"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in." Hasn't that a very

philosophical, detached, Lord of the Universe sound? It comes from

Thoreau, whom I am assiduously reading at present. As you see, I have

revolted against your literature and taken to my own again. The last

two evenings have been devoted to "Walden," a book as far removed as

possible from the problems of the dependent child.

Did you ever read old Henry David Thoreau? You really ought. I think

you'd find him a congenial soul. Listen to this: "Society is commonly

too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to

acquire any new value for each other. It would be better if there were

but one habitation to a square mile, as where I live." A pleasant,

expansive, neebor-like man he must have been! He minds me in some ways

o' Sandy.