Dear Enemy

If you had started me with a modern asylum, equipped with nice, clean,

hygienic cottages and everything in running order, I couldn't have stood

the monotony of its perfect clockwork. It's the sight of so many things

crying to be done that makes it possible for me to stay. Sometimes, I

must confess, I wake up in the morning and listen to these institution

noises, and sniff this institution air, and long for the happy, carefree

life that by rights is mine.

You my dear witch, cast a spell over me, and I came. But often in

the night watches your spell wears thin, and I start the day with the

burning decision to run away from the John Grier Home. But I postpone

starting until after breakfast. And as I issue into the corridor, one

of these pathetic tots runs to meet me, and shyly slips a warm, crumpled

little fist into my hand, and looks up with wide baby eyes, mutely

asking for a little petting, and I snatch him up and hug him. And then,

as I look over his shoulder at the other forlorn little mites, I long

to take all 113 into my arms and love them into happiness. There is

something hypnotic about this working with children. Struggle as you

may, it gets you in the end.

Your visit seems to have left me in a broadly philosophical frame of

mind; but I really have one or two bits of news that I might convey. The

new frocks are marching along, and, oh, but they are going to be sweet!

Mrs. Livermore was entranced with those parti-colored bales of cotton

cloth you sent,--you should see our workroom, with it all scattered

about,--and when I think of sixty little girls, attired in pink and blue

and yellow and lavender, romping upon our lawn of a sunny day, I feel

that we should have a supply of smoked eye glasses to offer visitors.

Of course you know that some of those brilliant fabrics are going to be

very fadeable and impractical. But Mrs. Livermore is as bad as you--she

doesn't give a hang. She'll make a second and a third set if necessary.

DOWN WITH CHECKED GINGHAM!

I am glad you liked our doctor. Of course we reserve the right to say

anything about him we choose, but our feelings would be awfully hurt if

anybody else should make fun of him.

He and I are still superintending each other's reading. Last week he

appeared with Herbert Spencer's "System of Synthetic Philosophy" for

me to glance at. I gratefully accepted it, and gave him in return the

"Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff." Do you remember in college how we used to

enrich our daily speech with quotations from Marie? Well, Sandy took her

home and read her painstakingly and thoughtfully.