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'Daddy 

BY  JEAN  WEBSTER 

j4u/i^  C^  r>ZXK  ENEMY 


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Daddy  Long-Legs 

By  JEAN  WEBSTER 

This  is  the  appealing,  unforgettable 
story  of  "Judy,"  who  grows  up  to  seven- 
teen in  the  John  Greer  Home  For  Or- 
phans. Then  a  wealthy  unknown,  in 
reality  one  of  the  directors  of  the  home, 
sends  her  to  college,  with  plenty  of  pretty 
clothes  and  pocket  money,  and  Judy 
takes  to  good  times  and  culture  with 
enthusiasm. 

Her  letters  to  "Daddy  Long-Legs," 
her  unknown  benefactor  —  kindle  the 
romance  of  his  life  and  hers.  When  the 
wealthy  unknown  falls  in  love  with  the 
adorable  Judy,  now  a  cultured  young 
lady,  she  too  discovers  that  he  is  some- 
thing more  than  just  a  mysterious  bene- 
factor—  a  very  human  and  lovable  man. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP     Publishers 
New  York  10,  N.  Y. 


JEAN  WEBSTER 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAE 

Fublishers 

NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  191 2,  by 
TfeE  Century  Coa^pany 

Copyright,  1940,  by 
Jean  McKinney  Conner 

Copyright,  191 2,  by 
The  Curtis  PuBusHiNG  Company 

All  rights  reserved.  This  bookj  or  parts 
thereof y  must  not  be  reproduced  in  any 
form  ivithout  permission  of  the  publisher. 


BOSTON  PilBMC  LIBRARy 


larr  wtth  d.  APPLBTON-oBimrRT  oomi>A]S  y 
£«XNIED  IN  U^^ 


TO  YOU 


^€>nl&n^ 


Introduction 11 

Blue  Wednesday «...  21 

The  Letters  of  Miss  Jerusha  Abbott 

to  Mr.  Daddy-Long-Legs  Smith 31 


Introduction 

JEAN  WEBSTER 

Being  descended  from  illustrious  people  has  its  ob- 
vious disadvantages.  One  of  these  is  the  difficulty  of 
winning  recognition  for  one's  work  entirely  apart 
from  consideration  of  the  conspicuous  name  of  one's 
ancestors.  Jean  Webster  had  the  distinction  of  be- 
longing to  a  famous  family,  but  she  constantly  felt 
that  such  an  inheritance  stood  in  the  way  of  achieving 
on  her  own  merits.  Her  mother,  Annie  Clemens,  was 
a  niece  of  Mark  Twain  and  her  father,  Charles  Luther 
Webster,  was  a  member  of  the  publishing  firm  to 
which  Mark  Twain  once  belonged.  Bom  and  reared 
in  a  literary  atmosphere  of  this  sort,  she  rather  natu- 
rally came  by  the  gift  of  telling  a  good  story,  and  of 
course  the  quality  of  humor  which  permeates  her 
writing  was  inherent  in  her.  Her  mother  was  a  south- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

emer  and  her  father  a  New  Englander  of  British  and 
German  lineage.  Among  her  eminent  forebears  were 
also  Daniel  Boone  and  Eli  Whitney. 

Jean  Webster's  real  name  was  Alice  Jane  Chandler 
Webster,  the  Jane  being  after  Mark  Twain's  mother. 
When  she  went  to  college,  her  room-mate's  name  was 
also  Alice,  so  Miss  Webster  was  asked  to  take  her 
second  name.  But  since  to  her  Jane  seemed  a  little  old- 
fashioned,  she  changed  it  to  Jean  and  ever  after  went 
by  that  name.  She  was  bom  in  Fredonia,  New  York, 
July  24,  1876,  and  her  early  school  days  were  spent 
there.  Later  she  attended  Lady  Jane  Grey  School  at 
Binghamton,  New  York,  from  which  she  was  gradu- 
ated in  1896.  At  Vassar  College,  where  she  took  her 
degree  in  190 1,  she  proved  herself  an  able  student  but 
a  poor  speller.  Once  upon  being  asked  by  a  horrified 
teacher,  "On  what  authority  do  you  spell  thus?"  she 
repUed,  "Webster." 

She  learned  early  to  write  easily  and  well.  At  college 
she  majored  in  English  and  economics  and  there  began 
to  fit  herself  for  a  literary  career.  While  a  student,  she 
was  not  only  correspondent  for  Poughkeepsie  news- 
papers but  also  a  contributor  of  stories  to  the  Vasstrr 
Miscellany.  Her  work  in  economics  meant  visits  to 
institutions  for  delinquent  and  destitute  children — 
visits  which  impressed  her  greatly  and  directed  her 

[12] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

imagination  in  her  writing.  Once  while  writing  for 
the  newspaper,  her  imagination  quite  ran  away  with 
her,  and  she  converted  some  fanciful  information  into 
a  practical  joke  which  nearly  cost  her  the  job. 

She  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  her  earliest  stories 
recognized,  but  once  she  had  succeeded  her  fame 
rapidly  grew.  After  being  graduated  from  college,  she 
became  an  independent  writer,  and  her  first  venture 
was  to  pubhsh  a  collection  of  stories  which  she  had 
written  as  a  student.  The  book  bore  the  title  When 
Fatty  Went  to  College,  and  began  the  famous  Patty 
series  which  remains  unmatched  in  this  field. 

Miss  Webster  traveled  widely,  spending  much  time 
in  Italy  where  during  donkey  rides  in  the  mountains 
she  found  the  setting  for  Jerry  Junior,  Her  Italian  ex- 
periences resulted  also  in  The  Wheat  Princess  which 
she  is  said  to  have  written  while  living  with  some  nuns 
in  a  convent  in  the  Sabine  Mountains.  But  her  hap- 
piest and  most  productive  days  were  probably  spent 
in  an  old  house  at  55  West  Tenth  Street,  New  York, 
for  here  she  came  in  touch  with  life  in  Greenwich 
Village  where  the  social  workers  came  to  know  her 
and  to  love  her. 

During  these  days  she  was  an  indefatigable  worker, 
and  the  charm  of  her  stories  is  due  quite  as  much  to 
her  ardor  for  application  as  to  innate  ability.    She 

[-5] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

spent  long  periods  in  writing  her  stories  and  then  cut 
them  down  to  desired  length.  Concerning  her  at  the 
beginning  of  her  Hterary  career  in  New  York  one 
critic  said:  "She  was  a  sane  and  hopeful  realist  on  her 
way,  it  was  predicted,  to  leadership,  and  was  already 
felt  indirectly  as  a  humanitarian.  Her  literary  disci- 
pline was  diligent  and  practical;  she  experienced  di- 
rectly, wrote  profusely,  and  cut  ruthlessly."  This  last 
fact  is  illustrated  by  the  story  of  the  Itahan  boy  who 
used  to  work  about  Miss  Webster's  home  and  with 
whom  she  used  to  enjoy  talking  in  his  native  language. 
Upon  being  asked  if  he  had  read  Daddy -Long-Legs, 
he  repHed  that  he  had,  but  it  was  discovered  that  he 
really  had  read  what  the  author  had  thrown  into  the 
scrap  basket. 

Of  course  Daddy -Long-Legs  was  inspired  by  Miss 
Webster's  love  for  children  which  was  the  basis  for 
her  serious  and  critical  interest  in  humanity.  The 
charm  and  friendliness  of  her  personaUty  carried  great 
influence  to  positions  of  importance  which  she  con- 
stantly held.  Her  particular  interest  was  in  improving 
life  in  orphanages,  a  concern  which  is  manifest  in  Dear 
Enevty,  and  she  likewise  served  on  special  committees 
having  to  do  with  children  and  prison  reform.  Her 
work  among  the  prisoners  at  Sing  Sing  is  particularly 
creditable.   Here  she  made  friends  with  the  prisoners 

1^4] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

whom  she  often  invited  to  call  on  her  when  they  were 
freed,  jestingly  warning  them  that  her  silver  was  but 
"plate." 

On  September  7,  19 15,  Miss  Webster  was  married 
to  Glenn  Ford  McICinney,  a  lawyer,  after  which  her 
life  alternated  between  her  Central  Park  home  in  New 
York  and  a  country  estate  in  Tyringham,  Massachu- 
setts, where  she  and  her  husband  enjoyed  the  mutual 
hobby  of  raising  ducks  and  pheasants.  Her  promising 
career  was  not  destined  to  continue,  however,  for  she 
died  on  June  11,  19 16,  less  than  a  year  after  her  mar- 
riage, and  a  day  or  two  after  the  birth  of  her  infant 
daughter.  In  her  memory  there  were  appropriately 
endowed  a  room  at  the  Girls'  Service  League  in  New 
York  and  a  bed  at  the  County  branch  of  the  New  York 
Orthopedic  Hospital  near  White  Plains. 

The  following  passages  help  to  make  an  interesting 
picture  of  the  character  and  habits  of  Jean  Webster: 

Jean  Webster  was  in  no  sense  a  reformer.  Daddy- 
Long-Legs  was  the  spontaneous  creation  of  her  brain, 
inspired,  no  doubt,  by  her  passionate  love  for  children. 
As  a  play,  even  more  than  in  book  form,  it  did  more 
good  than  a  thousand  tracts  in  pointing  the  need  of 
institutional  reforms.  Its  effect  was  so  immediate  and 
so  widespread  that  the  author  found  herself  at  the 

Us] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

center  of  a  reform  movement.  As  a  result  she  wrote 
her  last  published  work,  Dear  Enemy,  which,  beneath 
the  light,  engaging  love-story  that  plays  about  the 
surface,  presents  the  last  word  in  the  care  of  depend- 
ent children — a  book  destined  to  do  more  effective 
service  in  behalf  of  these  unfortunates  than  all  the 
treatises  yet  published.  Such  is  the  magic  of  person- 
ality when  combined  with  a  seeing  eye  and  a  singing 
pen.  The  names  of  her  characters,  whimsically 
enough,  she  usually  chose  from  the  telephone-book, 
but  the  characters  themselves,  were  always  taken  from 
life  both  in  her  fiction  and  in  her  play-writing. 

She  had  evolved  a  thorough  technic;  she  was  master 
of  the  tools  she  wrought  with;  and  at  the  time  of  her 
death  she  lacked  only  complete  maturity  of  mind  and 
experience  to  achieve  the  great  things  she  was  poten- 
tially capable  of.  As  it  is,  what  she  left  us  will  stand 
the  test  of  time,  I  believe,  as  the  best  of  its  kind. 

Only  a  few  intimates  know  of  the  wide  benefac- 
tions and  the  generous  giving  of  time  and  thought 
that  filled  the  days  of  her  busy  life.  But  those  who 
have  caught  in  her  writings  the  friendliness  and  good 
humor  of  her  attitude  toward  life  will  not  be  surprised 
to  know  that  she  lived  as  she  wrote.  And  there  is 
poignant  pathos  in  the  fact  that  this  sturdy  optimist 
who  did  so  much  in  her  later  years  for  the  cause  of 

[i6] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

childhood  should  at  the  last  have  given  her  life  for  a 
little  child.  [D.  Z.  D.  in  The  Century  Magazine^  No- 
vember, 19 16.] 

It  is  a  matter  of  opinion  whether  her  writer's  art 
was  more  effective  in  the  form  of  the  novel  or  the 
form  of  the  play.  But  certain  it  is  that  she  was  crafts- 
man enough  to  convert  the  one  medium  into  the  other, 
and  with  a  skill  that  showed  mastery  of  both.  It  is 
true  that  the  dramatic  form  came  to  her  mind  the 
more  quickly  for  she  had  been  a  close  student  of  the 
technique  of  the  drama,  and  it  was  her  custom,  at  least 
in  her  later  work,  to  first  cast  her  plot  as  a  play,  and 
then  convert  it  into  the  novel.  It  is  in  this  wise  that 
Daddy -Long-Legs  was  fashioned. 

It  has  been  said  of  a  distinguished  modem  that  he 
was  too  self-conscious  to  find  the  straight  path  to  the 
heart  of  a  friend.  The  converse  of  this  almost  epito- 
mizes Jean  Webster's  habit  of  thought,  and  habit  of 
action.  Whatever  her  plan  or  purpose,  whether  it  was 
in  work  or  friendship,  the  straight  path  without 
shadow  of  self -consciousness  was  the  one  she  followed. 
And  it  was  this  characteristic  that  made  those  who 
knew  her  best  feel  that  all  the  work  she  had  done  thus 
far  was  constructive  and  substantial,  but  that  the 
straight  path  led  to  wider  fields,  and  that  her  next  ten 

[^7] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

years  would  have  revealed  the  real  purpose  to  which 
she  had  directed  herself. 

To  transilluminate  the  commonplace  of  life  so  that 
faith,  hope,  and  love  shone  through  was  Jean  Webster's 
special  gift.  Her  dailyness  revealed  this,  whether  it 
was  in  starting  the  machinery  of  her  household;  in 
giving  counsel  to  varied  types  of  friends,  for  she  dom- 
inated whatever  group  she  stayed  among;  in  further- 
ing some  alleviation  of  another's  sorrow,  or  securing 
an  adjustment  for  better  ways  in  social  conditions,  her 
vision  carried  through  any  darkness,  and  in  every 
situation  she  saw  that  this  age-long  trinity  linked  to- 
gether made  for  the  largest  happiness  to  the  greatest 
number.  In  short,  her  philosophy  of  life.  [Elizabeth 
Gushing  in  The  Vassar  Quarterly,  November,  19 16.] 

The  following  sonnet  in  memory  of  Jean  Webster 
appeared  in  The  Century  Magazine,  November,  19 16. 

TO  J.  W. 
Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 
Jean  Webster  went  in  golden  glowing  June, 
Upon  a  full-pulsed,  warm-breathed,  vital  day, 
With  rich  achievement  luring  her  to  stay. 
Putting  her  keen,  kind  pen  aside  too  soon 
In  the  ripe  promise  of  her  ardent  noon. 
Yet,  sturdy-souled  and  whimsical  and  gay, 
I  think  she  would  have  chosen  it  that  way, 

[18] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

On  the  high-hill  note  of  her  life's  clear  tune. 

And  while  gray  hearts  grow  green  again  with  mirth, 
And  wakened  joy  and  beauty  go  to  find 
The  small,  blue-ginghamed  lonely  ones  of  earth, 

While  charm  and  cheer  and  color  work  their  will 
In  the  glad  gospel  that  she  left  behind, 
She  will  be  living,  laughing  with  us  still. 

JEAN  Webster's  works 
When  Patty  Went  to  College,  1903. 
The  Wheat  Princess,  1905. 
Jerry  Junior,  1907. 
The  Four-Pools  Mystery,  1908. 
Much  Ado  About  Peter,  1909. 
Just  Patty,  191 1. 
Daddy -Long-Legs,  1 9 1 2 . 
Asa  (a  play),  19 14. 
Dear  Enemy,  1915. 
Pipes  of  Palestrina  (an  unpublished  comedy). 


[^9] 


''Blue  Wednesday 


The  first  Wednesday  in  every  month  was  a  Per- 
fectly Awful  Day — a  day  to  be  awaited  with  dread, 
endured  with  courage  and  forgotten  with  haste. 
Every  floor  must  be  spotless,  every  chair  dustless,  and 
every  bed  without  a  wrinkle.  Ninety-seven  squirming 
little  orphans  must  be  scrubbed  and  combed  and  but- 
toned into  freshly  starched  ginghams;  and  all  ninety- 
seven  reminded  of  their  manners,  and  told  to  say, 
"Yes,  sir,"  "No,  sir,"  whenever  a  Trustee  spoke. 

It  was  a  distressing  time;  and  poor  Jerusha  Abbott, 
being  the  oldest  orphan,  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  it. 
But  this  particular  first  Wednesday,  like  its  predeces- 
sors, finally  dragged  itself  to  a  close.  Jerusha  escaped 
from  the  pantry  where  she  had  been  making  sand- 
wiches for  the  asylum's  guests,  and  turned  upstairs 
to  accomplish  her  regular  work.  Her  special  care  was 
room  F,  where  eleven  little  tots,  from  four  to  seven, 
occupied  eleven  little  cots  set  in  a  row.  Jerusha  as- 
sembled her  charges,  straightened  their  rumpled 
frocks,  wiped  their  noses,  and  started  them  in  an 

[21] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

orderly  and  willing  line  toward  the  dining-room  to 
engage  themselves  for  a  blessed  half  hour  with  bread 
and  milk  and  prune  pudding. 

Then  she  dropped  down  on  the  window  seat  and 
leaned  throbbing  temples  against  the  cool  glass.  She 
had  been  on  her  feet  since  five  that  morning,  doing 
everybody's  bidding,  scolded  and  hurried  by  a  nervous 
matron.  Mrs.  Lippett,  behind  the  scenes,  did  not  al- 
ways maintain  that  calm  and  pompous  dignity  with 
which  she  faced  an  audience  of  Trustees  and  lady 
visitors.  Jerusha  gazed  out  across  a  broad  stretch  of 
frozen  lawn,  beyond  the  tall  iron  paling  that  marked 
the  confines  of  the  asylum,  down  undulating  ridges 
sprinkled  with  country  estates,  to  the  spires  of  the 
village  rising  from  the  midst  of  bare  trees. 

The  day  was  ended — quite  successfully,  so  far  as 
she  knew.  The  Trustees  and  the  visiting  committee 
had  made  their  rounds,  and  read  their  reports,  and 
drunk  their  tea,  and  now  were  hurrying  home  to  their 
own  cheerful  firesides,  to  forget  their  bothersome  little 
charges  for  another  month.  Jerusha  leaned  forward 
watching  with  curiosity — and  a  touch  of  wistfulness 
— the  stream  of  carriages  and  automobiles  that  rolled 
out  of  the  asylum  gates.  In  imagination  she  followed 
first  one  equipage  then  another  to  the  big  houses 
dotted  along  the  hillside.  She  pictured  herself  in  a  fur 

[22] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

coat  and  a  velvet  hat  trimmed  with  feathers  leaning 
back  in  the  seat  and  nonchalantly  murmuring  "Home" 
to  the  driver.  But  on  the  door-sill  of  her  home  the 
picture  grew  blurred. 

Jerusha  had  an  imagination — an  imagination,  Mrs. 
Lippett  told  her,  that  would  get  her  into  trouble  if  she 
didn't  take  care — but  keen  as  it  was,  it  could  not  carry 
her  beyond  the  front  porch  of  the  houses  she  would 
enter.  Poor,  eager,  adventurous  little  Jerusha,  in  all 
her  seventeen  years,  had  never  stepped  inside  an  ordi- 
nary house;  she  could  not  picture  the  daily  routine  of 
those  other  human  beings  who  carried  on  their  lives 
undiscommoded  by  orphans. 

Je-TU-sha  Ab-bott 
You  are  ivan-ted 
In  the  of-fice, 
And  I  think  you'd 
Better  hurry  up! 

Tommy  Dillon  who  had  joined  the  choir,  came 
singing  up  the  stairs  and  down  the  corridor,  his  chant 
growing  louder  as  he  approached  room  F.  Jerusha 
wrenched  herself  from  the  window  and  refaced  the 
troubles  of  life. 

"Who  wants  me?"  she  cut  into  Tommy's  chant 
with  a  note  of  sharp  anxiety. 

[25] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Mrs.  Lippett  in  the  office^ 
And  I  think  she^s  mad. 
Ah-a-men! 

Tommy  piously  intoned,  but  his  accent  was  not 
entirely  malicious.  Even  the  most  hardened  little 
orphan  felt  sympathy  for  an  erring  sister  who  was 
summoned  to  the  office  to  face  an  annoyed  matron; 
and  Tommy  liked  Jerusha  even  if  she  did  sometimes 
jerk  him  by  the  arm  and  nearly  scrub  his  nose  off. 

Jerusha  went  without  comment,  but  with  two  par- 
allel lines  on  her  brow.  What  could  have  gone  wrong, 
she  wondered.  Were  the  sandwiches  not  thin  enough? 
Were  there  shells  in  the  nut  cakes?  Had  a  lady  visitor 
seen  the  hole  in  Susie  Hawthorn's  stocking?  Had — 
O  horrors! — one  of  the  cherubic  little  babes  in  her 
own  room  F  "sassed"  a  Trustee? 

The  long  lower  hall  had  not  been  lighted,  and  as  she 
came  downstairs,  a  last  Trustee  stood,  on  the  point  of 
departure,  in  the  open  door  that  led  to  the  porte- 
cochere.  Jerusha  caught  only  a  fleeting  impression  of 
the  man — and  the  impression  consisted  entirely  of  tall- 
ness.  He  was  waving  his  arm  toward  an  automobile 
waiting  in  the  curved  drive.  As  it  sprang  into  motion 
and  approached,  head  on  for  an  instant,  the  glaring 
headlights  threw  his  shadow  sharply  against  the  wall 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

inside.  The  shadow  pictured  grotesquely  elongated 
legs  and  arms  that  ran  along  the  floor  and  up  the  wall 
of  the  corridor.  It  looked,  for  all  the  world,  Hke  a 
huge,  wavering  daddy-long-legs. 

Jerusha's  anxious  frown  gave  place  to  quick  laugh- 
ter. She  was  by  nature  a  sunny  soul,  and  had  always 
snatched  the  tiniest  excuse  to  be  amused.  If  one  could 
derive  any  sort  of  entertainment  out  of  the  oppressive 
fact  of  a  Trustee,  it  was  something  unexpected  to  the 
good.  She  advanced  to  the  office  quite  cheered  by 
the  tiny  episode,  and  presented  a  smiling  face  to  Mrs. 
Lippett.  To  her  surprise  the  matron  was  also,  if  not 
exactly  smiling,  at  least  appreciably  affable;  she  wore 
an  expression  almost  as  pleasant  as  the  one  she  donned 
for  visitors. 

"Sit  down,  Jerusha,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Jerusha  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair  and  waited 
with  a  touch  of  breathlessness.  iVn  automobile  flashed 
past  the  window;  Mrs.  Lippett  glanced  after  it. 

"Did  you  notice  the  gentleman  who  has  just  gone?" 

"I  saw  his  back." 

"He  is  one  of  our  most  affluential  Trustees,  and  has 
given  large  sums  of  money  toward  the  asylum's  sup- 
port. I  am  not  at  Hberty  to  mention  his  name;  he  ex- 
pressly stipulated  that  he  was  to  remain  unknown." 

[^5] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Jerusha's  eyes  widened  slightly;  she  was  not  ac- 
customed to  being  summoned  to  the  office  to  discuss 
the  eccentricities  of  Trustees  with  the  matron. 

"This  gentleman  has  taken  an  interest  in  several  of 
our  boys.  You  remember  Charles  Benton  and  Henry 
Freize?  They  were  both  sent  through  college  by  Mr. 
— er — this  Trustee,  and  both  have  repaid  with  hard 
work  and  success  the  money  that  was  so  generously 
expended.  Other  payment  the  gentleman  does  not 
wish.  Heretofore  his  philanthropies  have  been  di- 
rected solely  toward  the  boys;  I  have  never  been  able 
to  interest  him  in  the  slightest  degree  in  any  of  the 
girls  in  the  institution,  no  matter  how  deserving.  He 
does  not,  I  may  tell  you,  care  for  girls." 

"No,  m.a'am,"  Jerusha  murmured,  since  some  reply 
seemed  to  be  expected  at  this  point. 

"To-day  at  the  regular  meeting,  the  question  of 
your  future  was  brought  up." 

Mrs.  Lippett  allowed  a  moment  of  silence  to  fall, 
then  resumed  in  a  slow,  placid  manner  extremely  try- 
ing to  her  hearer's  suddenly  tightened  nerves. 

"Usually,  as  you  know,  the  children  are  not  kept 
after  they  are  sixteen,  but  an  exception  was  made  in 
your  case.  You  had  finished  our  school  at  fourteen, 
and  having  done  so  well  in  your  studies — not  always, 
I  must  say,  in  your  conduct — it  was  determined  to 

[26] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

let  you  go  on  in  the  village  high  school.  Now  you  are 
finishing  that,  and  of  course  the  asylum  cannot  be  re- 
sponsible any  longer  for  your  support.  As  it  is,  you 
have  had  two  years  more  than  most." 

Mrs.  Lippett  overlooked  the  fact  that  Jerusha  had 
w^orked  hard  for  her  board  during  those  two  years, 
that  the  convenience  of  the  asylum  had  come  first 
and  her  education  second;  that  on  days  like  the  present 
she  was  kept  at  home  to  scrub. 

"As  I  say,  the  question  of  your  future  was  brought 
up  and  your  record  was  discussed — ^thoroughly  dis- 
cussed." 

Mrs.  Lippett  brought  accusing  eyes  to  bear  upon 
the  prisoner  in  the  dock,  and  the  prisoner  looked 
guilty  because  it  seemed  to  be  expected — ^not  because 
she  could  remember  any  strikingly  black  pages  in  her 
record. 

*'Of  course  the  usual  disposition  of  one  in  your 
place  would  be  to  put  you  in  a  position  where  you 
could  begin  to  work,  but  you  have  done  well  in  school 
in  certain  branches;  it  seems  that  your  work  in  English 
has  even  been  brilliant.  Miss  Pritchard  who  is  on  our 
visiting  committee  is  also  on  the  school  board;  she 
has  been  talking  with  your  rhetoric  teacher,  and  made 
a  speech  in  your  favor.  She  also  read  aloud  an  essay 
that  you  had  written  entitled,  *Blue  Wednesday.'  " 

[=7] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Jerusha's  guilty  expression  this  time  was  not  as- 
sumed. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  you  showed  Kttle  gratitude 
in  holding  up  to  ridicule  the  institution  that  has  done 
so  much  for  you.  Had  you  not  managed  to  be  funny 
I  doubt  if  you  would  have  been  forgiven.  But  fortu- 
nately for  you,  Mr. ,  that  is,  the  gentleman  who 

has  just  gone — appears  to  have  an  immoderate  sense  of 
humor.  On  the  strength  of  that  impertinent  paper,  he 
has  offered  to  send  you  to  college." 

"To  college?"  Jerusha's  eyes  grew  big. 

Mrs.  Lippett  nodded. 

"He  waited  to  discuss  the  terms  with  me.  They  are 
unusual.  The  gentleman,  I  may  say,  is  erratic.  He 
believes  that  you  have  originality,  and  he  is  planning 
to  educate  you  to  become  a  writer." 

"A  writer?"  Jerusha's  mind  was  numbed.  She 
could  only  repeat  Mrs.  Lippett's  words. 

"That  is  his  wish.  Whether  anything  will  come  of 
it,  the  future  will  show.  He  is  giving  you  a  very 
liberal  allowance,  almost,  for  a  girl  who  has  never  had 
any  experience  in  taking  care  of  money,  too  liberal. 
But  he  planned  the  matter  in  detail,  and  I  did  not  feel 
free  to  make  any  suggestions.  You  are  to  remain  here 
through  the  summer,  and  Miss  Pritchard  has  kindly 
offered  to  superintend  your  outfit.   Your  board  and 

[28] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

tuition  will  be  paid  directly  to  the  college,  and  you 
will  receive  in  addition  during  the  four  years  you  are 
there,  an  allowance  of  thirty-five  dollars  a  month. 
This  will  enable  you  to  enter  on  the  same  standing  as 
the  other  students.  The  money  will  be  sent  to  you  by 
the  gentleman's  private  secretary  once  a  month,  and 
in  return,  you  will  write  a  letter  of  acknowledgment 
once  a  month.  That  is — ^you  are  not  to  thank  him  for 
the  money;  he  doesn't  care  to  have  that  mentioned, 
but  you  are  to  write  a  letter  telling  of  the  progress  in 
your  studies  and  the  details  of  your  daily  Hfe.  Just 
such  a  letter  as  you  would  write  to  your  parents  if 
they  were  living. 

"These  letters  will  be  addressed  to  Mr.  John  Smith 
and  will  be  sent  in  care  of  the  secretary.  The  gentle- 
man's name  is  not  John  Smith,  but  he  prefers  to  re- 
main unknown.  To  you  he  will  never  be  anything 
but  John  Smith.  His  reason  in  requiring  the  letters 
is  that  he  thinks  nothing  so  fosters  facility  in  literary 
expression  as  letter-writing.  Since  you  have  no  family 
with  whom  to  correspond,  he  desires  you  to  write 
in  this  way;  also,  he  wishes  to  keep  track  of  your 
progress.  He  will  never  answer  your  letters,  nor  in 
the  slightest  particular  take  any  notice  of  them.  He 
detests  letter-writing,  and  does  not  wish  you  to  be- 
come a  burden.  If  any  point  should  ever  arise  where 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

an  answer  would  seem  to  be  imperative — such  as  in 
the  event  of  your  being  expelled,  which  I  trust  will 
not  occur — ^you  may  correspond  with  Mr.  Griggs,  his 
secretary.  These  monthly  letters  are  absolutely  ob- 
ligatory on  your  part;  they  are  the  only  payment 
that  Mr.  Smith  requires,  so  you  must  be  as  punctilious 
in  sending  them  as  though  it  were  a  bill  that  you  were 
paying.  I  hope  that  they  will  always  be  respectful  in 
tone  and  will  reflect  credit  on  your  training.  You 
must  remember  that  you  are  writing  to  a  Trustee  of 
the  John  Grier  Home." 

Jerusha's  eyes  longingly  sought  the  door.  Her  head 
was  in  a  whirl  of  excitement,  and  she  wished  only  to 
escape  from  Mrs.  Lippett's  platitudes,  and  think.  She 
rose  and  took  a  tentative  step  backwards.  Mrs.  Lip- 
pett  detained  her  with  a  gesture;  it  was  an  oratorical 
opportunity  not  to  be  slighted. 

"I  trust  that  you  are  properly  grateful  for  this  very 
rare  good  fortune  that  has  befallen  you?  Not  many 
girls  in  your  position  ever  have  such  an  opportunity 
to  rise  in  the  world.   You  must  always  remember — " 

"I — ye§,  ma'am,  thank  you.  I  think,  if  that's  all,  I 
must  go  and  sew  a  patch  on  Freddie  Perkins's  trou- 
sers." 

The  door  closed  behind  her,  and  Mrs.  Lippett 
watched  it  with  dropped  jaw,  her  peroration  in  midair. 

130] 


THE  LETTERS  OF 

MISS  JERUSHA  ABBOTT 

to 

MR.  DADDY-LONG-LEGS  SMITH 


2 1 5  Fergussen  Hall, 
September  24th. 
Dear  Kind-Trustee-Who-Sends-Orphans-to-College^ 

Here  I  am!  I  traveled  yesterday  for  four  hours  in 
a  train.  It's  a  funny  sensation  isn't  it?  I  never  rode  in 
one  before. 

College  is  the  biggest,  most  bewildering  place — I 
get  lost  whenever  I  leave  my  room.  I  will  write  you  a 
description  later  when  I'm  feeling  less  muddled;  also 
I  will  tell  you  about  my  lessons.  Classes  don't  begin 
until  Monday  morning,  and  this  is  Saturday  night. 
But  I  wanted  to  write  a  letter  first  just  to  get  ac- 
quainted. 

It  seems  queer  to  be  writing  letters  to  somebody 
you  don't  know.  It  seems  queer  for  me  to  be  writing 
letters  at  all — I've  never  written  more  than  three  or 
four  in  my  life,  so  please  overlook  it  if  these  are  not 
a  model  kind. 

Before  leaving  yesterday  morning,  Mrs.  Lippett  and 
I  had  a  very  serious  talk.  She  told  me  how  to  behave 

[55] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

all  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  especially  how  to  behave 
toward  the  kind  gentleman  who  is  doing  so  much 
for  me.  I  must  take  care  to  be  Very  Respectful. 

But  how  can  one  be  very  respectful  to  a  person  who 
wishes  to  be  called  John  Smith?  Why  couldn't  you 
have  picked  out  a  name  with  a  Httle  personality?  I 
might  as  well  write  letters  to  Dear  Hitching-Post  or 
Dear  Clothes-Pole. 

I  have  been  thinking  about  you  a  great  deal  this 
summer;  having  somebody  take  an  interest  in  me  after 
all  these  years,  makes  me  feel  as  though  I  had  found 
a  sort  of  family.  It  seems  as  though  I  belonged  to 
somebody  now,  and  it's  a  very  comfortable  sensation. 
I  must  say,  however,  that  when  I  think  about  you, 
my  imagination  has  very  little  to  work  upon.  There 
are  just  three  things  that  I  know: 
L  You  are  tail. 
IL  You  are  rich. 

IIL  You  hate  girls. 

I  suppose  I  might  call  you  Dear  Mr.  Girl-Hater. 
Only  that's  sort  of  insulting  to  me.  Or  Dear  Mr.  Rich- 
Man,  but  that's  insulting  to  you,  as  though  money 
were  the  only  important  thing  about  you.  Besides, 
being  rich  is  such  a  very  external  quality.  Maybe  you 
won't  stay  rich  all  your  life;  lots  of  very  clever  men 
get  smashed  up  in  Wall  Street.  But  at  least  you  will 

[34] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

stay  tall  all  your  life!  So  I've  decided  to  call  you  Dear 
Daddy-Long-Legs.  I  hope  you  won't  mind.  It's  just 
a  private  pet  name — ^we  v^on't  tell  Mrs.  Lippett. 

The  ten  o'clock  bell  is  going  to  ring  in  two  minutes. 
Our  day  is  divided  into  sections  by  bells.  We  eat  and 
sleep  and  study  by  bells.  It's  very  enlivening;  I  feel 
like  a  fire  horse  all  of  the  time.  There  it  goes!  Lights 
out.  Good  night. 

Observe  with  what  precision  I  obey  rules — due  to 
my  training  in  the  John  Grier  Home. 

Yours  most  respectfully, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 

To  Mr,  Daddy-Long-Legs  Smith 


[35] 


October  1st. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  love  college  and  I  love  you  for  sending  me — ^I'm 
very,  very  happy,  and  so  excited  every  moment  of  the 
time  that  I  can  scarcely  sleep.  You  can't  imagine  how 
different  it  is  from  the  John  Grier  Home.  I  never 
dreamed  there  was  such  a  place  in  the  world.  I'm 
feeling  sorry  for  everybody  who  isn't  a  girl  and  who 
can't  come  here;  I  am  sure  the  college  you  attended 
when  you  were  a  boy  couldn't  have  been  so  nice. 

My  room  is  up  in  a  tower  that  used  to  be  the  con- 
tagious ward  before  they  built  the  new  infirmary. 
There  are  three  other  girls  on  the  same  floor  of  the 
tower — a  Senior  who  wears  spectacles  and  is  always 
asking  us  please  to  be  a  little  more  quiet,  and  two 
Freshmen  named  Sallie  McBride  and  Julia  Rutledge 
Pendleton.  Sallie  has  red  hair  and  a  turn-up  nose  and 
is  quite  friendly;  Julia  comes  from  one  of  the  first 
families  in  New  York  and  hasn't  noticed  me  yet. 
They  room  together  and  the  Senior  and  I  have  singles. 

[36] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Usually  Freshmen  can't  get  singles;  they  are  very 
scarce,  but  I  got  one  without  even  asking.  I  suppose 
the  registrar  didn't  think  it  v^ould  be  right  to  ask  a 
properly  brought-up  girl  to  room  with  a  foundling. 
You  see  there  are  advantages! 

My  room  is  on  the  northwest  corner  with  two 
windows  and  a  view.  After  you've  lived  in  a  ward 
for  eighteen  years  with  twenty  room-mates,  it  is  rest- 
ful to  be  alone.  This  is  the  first  chance  I've  ever  had 
to  get  acquainted  with  Jerusha  Abbott.  I  think  I'm 
going  to  like  her. 

Do  you  think  you  are? 

Tuesday. 

They  are  organizing  the  Freshman  basket-ball  team 
and  there's  just  a  chance  that  I  shall  make  it.  I'm  little 
of  course,  but  terribly  quick  and  wiry  and  tough. 
While  the  others  are  hopping  about  in  the  air,  I  can 
dodge  under  their  feet  and  grab  the  ball.  It's  loads  of 
fun  practising — out  in  the  athletic  field  in  the  after- 
noon with  the  trees  all  red  and  yellow  and  the  air  full 
of  the  smell  of  burning  leaves,  and  everybody  laugh- 
ing and  shouting.  These  are  the  happiest  girls  I  ever 
saw — and  I  am  the  happiest  of  all! 

I  meant  to  write  a  long  letter  and  tell  you  all  the 
things  I'm  learning  (Mrs.  Lippett  said  you  wanted  to 
know)  but  yth  hour  has  just  rung,  and  in  ten  minutes 

[37] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Fm  due  at  the  athletic  field  in  gymnasium  clothes. 
Don't  you  hope  I'll  make  the  team? 

Yours  always, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 

P.S.  (9  o'clock.) 

Sallie  McBride  just  poked  her  head  in  at  my  door. 
This  is  what  she  said: 

"Fm  so  homesick  that  I  simply  can't  stand  it.  Do 
you  feel  that  way?" 

I  smiled  a  little  and  said  no,  I  thought  I  could  pull 
through.  At  least  homesickness  is  one  disease  that 
Fve  escaped!  I  never  heard  of  anybody  being  asylum- 
sick,  did  you? 


[?^j 


October   10th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  Michael  Angelo? 

He  was  a  famous  artist  who  lived  in  Italy  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  Everybody  in  English  Literature 
seemed  to  know  about  him  and  the  whole  class 
laughed  because  I  thought  he  was  an  archangel.  He 
sounds  like  an  archangel,  doesn't  he?  The  trouble 
with  college  is  that  you  are  expected  to  know  such 
a  lot  of  things  you've  never  learned.  It's  very  embar- 
rassing at  times.  But  now,  when  the  girls  talk  about 
things  that  I  never  heard  of,  I  just  keep  still  and  look 
them  up  in  the  encyclopedia. 

I  made  an  awful  mistake  the  first  day.  Somebody 
mentioned  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  and  I  asked  if  she 
was  a  Freshman.  That  joke  has  gone  all  over  college. 
But  anyway,  I'm  just  as  bright  in  class  as  any  of  the 
others — and  brighter  than  some  of  them! 

Do  you  care  to  know  how  I've  furnished  my  room? 
It's  a  symphony  in  brown  and  yellow.  The  wall  was 

{39] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

tinted  buff,  and  I've  bought  yellow  denim  curtains  and 
cushions  and  a  mahogany  desk  (second  hand  for  three 
dollars)  and  a  rattan  chair  and  a  brown  rug  with  an 
ink  spot  in  the  middle.  I  stand  the  chair  over  the  spot. 

The  windows  are  up  high;  you  can't  look  out  from 
an  ordinary  seat.  But  I  unscrewed  the  looking-glass 
from  the  back  of  the  bureau,  upholstered  the  top,  and 
moved  it  up  against  the  window.  It's  just  the  right 
height  for  a  window  seat.  You  pull  out  the  drawers 
like  steps  and  walk  up.  Very  comfortable! 

SalHe  McBride  helped  me  choose  the  things  at  the 
Senior  auction.  She  has  lived  in  a  house  all  her  life 
and  knows  about  furnishing.  You  can't  imagine  what 
fun  it  is  to  shop  and  pay  with  a  real  five-dollar  bill 
and  get  some  change — ^when  you've  never  had  more 
than  a  nickel  in  your  life.  I  assure  you,  Daddy  dear, 
I  do  appreciate  that  allowance. 

Sallie  is  the  most  entertaining  person  in  the  world — 
and  Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton  the  least  so.  It's  queer 
what  a  mixture  the  registrar  can  make  in  the  matter 
of  room-mates.  Sallie  thinks  everything  is  funny — 
even  flunking — and  Julia  is  bored  at  everything.  She 
never  makes  the  slightest  effort  to  be  amiable.  She 
beheves  that  if  you  are  a  Pendleton,  that  fact  alone 
admits  you  to  heaven  without  any  further  examina- 
tion. Julia  and  I  were  bom  to  be  enemies. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

And  now  I  suppose  you've  been  waiting  very  im- 
patiently to  hear  what  I  am  learning? 

L  Latin:  Second  Punic  war.  Hannibal  and  his 
forces  pitched  camp  at  Lake  Trasimenus  last  night. 
They  prepared  an  ambuscade  for  the  Romans,  and 
a  battle  took  place  at  the  fourth  watch  this  morning. 
Romans  in  retreat. 

IL  French:  24  pages  of  the  "Three  Musketeers" 
and  third  conjugation,  irregular  verbs. 

IIL  Geometry:  Finished  cylinders;  now  doing 
cones. 

IV.  English:  Studying  exposition.  My  style  im- 
proves daily  in  clearness  and  brevity. 

V.  Physiology:  Reached  the  digestive  system.  Bile 
and  the  pancreas  next  time.  Yours,  on  the  way  to 
being  educated. 

Jerusha  Abbott. 

P.S.  I  hope  you  never  touch  alcohol.  Daddy? 
It  does  dreadful  things  to  your  liver. 


un 


Wednesday. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Fve  changed  my  name. 

I'm  still  "Jerusha"  in  the  catalogue,  but  I'm  "Judy" 
every  place  else.  It's  sort  of  too  bad,  isn't  it,  to  have 
to  give  yourself  the  only  pet  name  you  ever  had? 
I  didn't  quite  make  up  the  Judy  though.  That's  what 
Freddie  Perkins  used  to  call  me  before  he  could  talk 
plain. 

I  wish  Mrs.  Lippett  would  use  a  little  more  ingenu- 
ity about  choosing  babies'  names.  She  gets  the  last 
names  out  of  the  telephone  book — you'll  find  Abbott 
on  the  first  page — and  she  picks  the  Christian  names 
up  anywhere;  she  got  Jerusha  from  a  tombstone.  I've 
always  hated  it;  but  I  rather  like  Judy.  It's  such  a  silly 
name.  It  belongs  to  the  kind  of  girl  I'm  not — a  sweet 
little  blue-eyed  thing,  petted  and  spoiled  by  all  the 
family,  who  romps  her  way  through  life  without  any 
cares.  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  be  like  that?  Whatever 
faults  I  may  have,  no  one  can  ever  accuse  me  of  having 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

been  spoiled  by  my  family!  But  it's  sort  of  fun  to 
pretend  I've  been.  In  the  future  please  always  address 
me  as  Judy. 

Do  you  want  to  know  something?  I  have  three 
pairs  of  kid  gloves.  I've  had  kid  mittens  before  from 
the  Christmas  tree,  but  never  real  kid  gloves  with  five 
fingers.  I  take  them  out  and  try  them  on  every  little 
while.  It's  all  I  can  do  not  to  wear  them  to  classes. 

(Dinner  bell.   Good-by.) 

Friday. 

What  do  you  think,  Daddy?  The  English  instruc- 
tor said  that  my  last  paper  shows  an  unusual  amount 
of  originality.  She  did,  truly.  Those  were  her  words. 
It  doesn't  seem  possible,  does  it,  considering  the  eight- 
een years  of  training  that  I've  had?  The  aim  of  the 
John  Grier  Home  (as  you  doubtless  know  and  heart- 
ily approve  of)  is  to  turn  the  ninety-seven  orphans 
into  ninety-seven  twins. 

The  unusual  artistic  ability  which  I  exhibit,  was 
developed  at  an  early  age  through  drawing  chalk  pic- 
tures of  Mrs.  Lippett  on  the  woodshed  door. 

I  hope  that  I  don't  hurt  your  feeHngs  when  I  criti- 
cize the  home  of  my  youth?  But  you  have  the  upper 
hand,  you  know,  for  if  I  become  too  impertinent,  you 
can  always  stop  payment  on  your  checks.  That  isn't 

[43] 


AUY   ORPHAN 


Rear  Elevation.    Fyont  Elevation 


a  very  polite  thing  to  say — ^but  you  can't  expect  me 
to  have  any  manners;  a  foundling  asylum  isn't  a  young 
ladies'  finishing  school. 

You  know,  Daddy,  it  isn't  the  work  that  is  going 
to  be  hard  in  college.  It's  the  play.  Half  the  time  I 
don't  know  what  the  girls  are  talking  about;  their 
jokes  seem  to  relate  to  a  past  that  every  one  but  me 
has  shared.  I'm  a  foreigner  in  the  world  and  I  don't 
understand  the  language.  It's  a  miserable  feeling.  I've 
had  it  all  my  life.  At  the  high  school  the  girls  would 

[44] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

stand  in  groups  and  just  look  at  me.  I  was  queer  and 
different  and  everybody  knew  it.  I  could  feel  "John 
Grier  Home"  written  on  my  face.  And  then  a  few 
charitable  ones  would  make  a  point  of  coming  up  and 
saying  something  polite.  /  hated  every  one  of  them — 
the  charitable  ones  most  of  all. 

Nobody  here  knows  that  I  was  brought  up  in  an 
asylum.  I  told  SaUie  McBride  that  my  mother  and 
father  were  dead,  and  that  a  kind  old  gentleman  was 
sending  me  to  college — ^which  is  entirely  true  so  far 
as  it  goes.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  am  a  coward, 
but  I  do  want  to  be  like  the  other  girls,  and  that 
Dreadful  Home  looming  over  my  childhood  is  the  one 
great  big  difference.  If  I  can  turn  my  back  on  that 
and  shut  out  the  remembrance,  I  think  I  might  be 
just  as  desirable  as  any  other  girl.  I  don't  believe 
there's  any  real,  underneath  difference,  do  you? 

Anyway,  Sallie  McBride  likes  me! 

Yours  ever, 
Judy  Abbott. 
(Nee  Jerusha.) 


Saturday  morning. 

I've  just  been  reading  this  letter  over  and  it  sounds 
pretty  un-cheerful.  But  can't  you  guess  that  I  have 

[45] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

a  special  topic  due  Monday  morning  and  a  review 
in  geometry  and  a  very  sneezy  cold? 

Sunday. 

I  forgot  to  mail  this  yesterday  so  I  will  add  an  in- 
dignant postscript.  We  had  a  bishop  this  morning, 
and  ivhat  do  you  think  he  said? 

"The  most  beneficent  promise  made  us  in  the  Bible 
is  this,  'The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you.'  They 
were  put  here  in  order  to  keep  us  charitable." 

The  poor,  please  observe,  being  a  sort  of  useful 
domestic  animal.  If  I  hadn't  grown  into  such  a  perfect 
lady,  I  should  have  gone  up  after  service  and  told 
him  what  I  thought. 


[46] 


October  25th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs y 

I've  made  the  basket-ball  team  and  you  ought  to 
see  the  bruise  on  my  left  shoulder.  It's  blue  and  ma- 
hogany with  little  streaks  of  orange.  Julia  Pendleton 
tried  for  the  team,  but  she  didn't  make  it.  Hooray! 

You  see  what  a  mean  disposition  I  have. 

College  gets  nicer  and  nicer.  I  like  the  girls  and 
the  teachers  and  the  classes  and  the  campus  and  the 


Ju  d  \^    a  t        /( 
Basket  Ball 

U7^ 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

things  to  eat.  We  have  ice-cream  twice  a  week  and 
we  never  have  corn-meal  mush. 

You  only  wanted  to  hear  from  me  once  a  month, 
didn't  you?  And  I've  been  peppering  you  w4th  letters 
every  few  days!  But  I've  been  so  excited  about  all 
these  new  adventures  that  I  Trmst  talk  to  somebody; 
and  you're  the  only  one  I  know.  Please  excuse  my 
exuberance;  I'll  settle  pretty  soon.  If  my  letters  bore 
you,  you  can  always  toss  them  into  the  waste-basket. 
I  promise  not  to  write  another  till  the  middle  of 
November. 

Yours  most  loquaciously, 

Judy  Abbott. 


[m 


November  15th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Listen  to  what  I've  learned  to-day: 

The  area  of  the  convex  surface  of  the  frustum  of  a 
regular  pyramid  is  half  the  product  of  the  sum  of  the 
perimeters  of  its  bases  by  the  altitude  of  either  of  its 
trapezoids. 

It  doesn't  sound  true,  but  it  is — ^I  can  prove  it! 

You've  never  heard  about  my  clothes,  have  you, 
Daddy?  Six  dresses,  all  new  and  beautiful  and  bought 
for  me — not  handed  down  from  somebody  bigger. 
Perhaps  you  don't  realize  what  a  climax  that  marks 
in  the  career  of  an  orphan?  You  gave  them  to  me, 
and  I  am  very,  very,  very  much  obliged.  It's  a  fine 
thing  to  be  educated — ^but  nothing  compared  to  the 
dizzying  experience  of  owning  six  new  dresses.  Miss 
Pritchard  who  is  on  the  visiting  committee  picked 
them  out — not  Mrs.  Lippett,  thank  goodness.  I  have 
an  evening  dress,  pink  mull  over  silk  (I'm  perfectly 
beautiful  in  that),  and  a  blue  church  dress,  and  a  din- 

[49] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

ner  dress  of  red  veiling  with  Oriental  trimming 
(makes  me  look  like  a  Gipsy)  and  another  of  rose- 
colored  challis,  and  a  gray  street  suit,  and  an  every- 
day dress  for  classes.  That  wouldn't  be  an  awfully 
big  wardrobe  for  Julia  Rutledge  Pendleton,  perhaps, 
but  for  Jerusha  Abbott — Oh,  my! 

I  suppose  you're  thinking  now  what  a  frivolous, 
shallow,  little  beast  she  is,  and  what  a  waste  of  money 
to  educate  a  girl? 

But,  Daddy,  if  you'd  been  dressed  in  checked  ging- 
hams all  your  life,  you'd  appreciate  how  I  feel.  And 
when  I  started  to  the  high  school,  I  entered  upon 
another  period  even  worse  than  the  checked  ging- 
hams. 

The  poor  box. 

You  can't  know  how  I  dreaded  appearing  in  school 
in  those  miserable  poor-box  dresses.  I  was  perfectly 
sure  to  be  put  down  in  class  next  to  the  girl  who  first 
owned  my  dress,  and  she  would  whisper  and  giggle 
and  point  it  out  to  the  others.  The  bitterness  of 
wearing  your  enemies'  cast-off  clothes  eats  into  your 
soul.  If  I  wore  silk  stockings  for  the  rest  of  my  life, 
I  don't  beheve  I  could  obliterate  the  scar. 


[50] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

LATEST  WAR  BULLETIN! 

News  from  the  scene  of  Action. 

At  the  fourth  watch  on  Thursday  the  13th  of  No- 
vember, Hannibal  routed  the  advance  guard  of  the 
Romans  and  led  the  Carthaginian  forces  over  the 
mountains  into  the  plains  of  Casilinum.  A  cohort  of 
light  armed  Numidians  engaged  the  infantry  of  Quin- 
tus  Fabius  Maximus.  Two  battles  and  light  skirmish- 
ing. Romans  repulsed  with  heavy  losses. 
I  have  the  honor  of  being, 
Your  special  correspondent  from  the 
front 

J.  Abbott. 

P.S.  I  know  Fm  not  to  expect  any  letters  in  return, 
and  I've  been  warned  not  to  bother  you  with  ques- 
tions, but  tell  me.  Daddy,  just  this  once — ^are  you 
awfully  old  or  just  a  little  old?  And  are  you  perfectly 
bald  or  just  a  little  bald?  It  is  very  difficult  thinking 
about  you  in  the  abstract  like  a  theorem  in  geometry. 

Given  a  tall  rich  man  who  hates  girls,  but  is  very 
generous  to  one  quite  impertinent  girl,  what  does  he 
look  like? 

R.S.V.P. 

[31] 


December  19th. 


Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 


You  never  answered  my  question  and  it  was  very 
important. 
ARE  YOU  BALD? 

I  have  it  planned  exactly  what 
you  look  like — ^very  satisfactorily — 
until  I  reach  the  top  of  your  head, 
and  then  I  am  stuck.  I  can't  decide 
whether  you  have  white  hair  or 
black  hair  or  sort  of  sprinkly  gray 
hair  or  maybe  none  at  all. 

Here  is  your  portl'ait: 

But  the  problem  is,  shall  I  add 
some  hair? 

Would  you  like  to  know  what 
color  your  eyes  are? 


[52] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

They're  gray,  and  your  eyebrows  stick  out  like  a 
porch  roof  (beetling,  they're  called  in  novels)  and 
your  mouth  is  a  straight  line  with  a  tendency  to  turn 
down  at  the  comers.  Oh,  you  see,  I  know!  You're  a 
snappy  old  thing  with  a  temper. 
(Chapel  bell.) 

9.45  P.M. 

I  have  a  new  unbreakable  rule:  never,  never  to 
study  at  night  no  matter  how  many  written  reviews 
are  coming  in  the  morning.  Instead,  I  read  just  plain 
books — I  have  to,  you  know,  because  there  are  eight- 
een blank  years  behind  me.  You  wouldn't  believe, 
Daddy,  what  an  abyss  of  ignorance  my  mind  is;  I  am 
just  realizing  the  depths  myself.  The  things  that  most 
girls  with  a  properly  assorted  family  and  a  home  and 
friends  and  a  library  know  by  absorption,  I  have  never 
heard  of.  For  example: 

I  never  read  "Mother  Goose"  or  "David  Copper- 
field"  or  'Ivanhoe"  or  "Cinderella"  or  "Blue  Beard" 
or  "Robinson  Crusoe"  or  "Jane  Eyre"  or  "AHce  in 
Wonderland"  or  a  word  of  Rudyard  Kipling.  I  didn't 
know  that  Henry  the  Eighth  was  married  more  than 
once  or  that  Shelley  was  a  poet.  I  didn't  know  that 
people  used  to  be  monkeys  and  that  the  Garden  of 
Eden  was  a  beautiful  myth.  I  didn't  know  that  R.L.S. 
stood  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  or  that  George  Eliot 

[55] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

was  a  lady.  I  had  never  seen  a  picture  of  the  "Mona 
Lisa"  and  (it's  true  but  you  won't  believe  it)  I  had 
never  heard  of  Sherlock  Holmes. 

Now,  I  know  all  of  these  things  and  a  lot  of  others 
besides,  but  you  can  see  how  much  I  need  to  catch 
up.  And  oh,  but  it's  fun!  I  look  forward  all  day  to 
evening,  and  then  I  put  an  "engaged"  on  the  door 
and  get  into  my  nice  red  bath  robe  and  furry  slippers 
and  pile  all  the  cushions  behind  me  on  the  couch  and 
light  the  brass  student  lamp  at  my  elbow,  and  read  and 
read  and  read.  One  book  isn't  enough.  I  have  four 
going  at  once.  Just  now,  they're  Tennyson's  poems 
and  "Vanity  Fair"  and  Kipling's  "Plain  Tales"  and 
— don't  laugh — "Little  Women."  I  find  that  I  am  the 
only  girl  in  college  who  wasn't  brought  up  on  "Little 
Women."  I  haven't  told  anybody  though  (that  would 
stamp  me  as  queer).  I  just  quietly  went  and  bought 
it  with  $1.12  of  my  last  month's  allowance;  and  the 
next  time  somebody  mentions  pickled  limes,  I'll  know 
what  she  is  talking  about! 

(Ten  o'clock  bell.  This  is  a  very  interrupted  let- 
ter.) 


[54] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


Saturday. 

I  have  the  honor  to  report  fresh  explorations  in  the 
field  of  geometry.  On  Friday  last  we  abandoned  our 
former  works  in  parallelopipeds  and  proceeded  to 
truncated  prisms.  We  are  finding  the  road  rough 
and  very  uphill. 

Sunday. 

The  Christmas  holidays  begin  next  week  and  the 
trunks  are  up.  The  corridors  are  so  cluttered  that  you 
can  hardly  get  through,  and  everybody  is  so  bubbling 
over  with  excitement  that  studying  is  getting  left  out. 
I'm  going  to  have  a  beautiful  time  in  vacation;  there's 
another  Freshman  who  lives  in  Texas  staying  behind, 
and  we  are  planning  to  take  long  walks  and — if  there's 
any  ice — learn  to  skate.  Then  there  is  still  the  whole 
library  to  be  read — and  three  empty  weeks  to  do  it  in! 

Good-by,  Daddy,  I  hope  that  you  are  feeling  as 
happy  as  I  am. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

[53] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

P.  S.  Don't  forget  to  answer  my  question.  If  you 
don't  want  the  trouble  of  writing,  have  your  secretary 
telegraph.  He  can  just  say: 

Mr.  Smith  is  quite  bald, 

or 

Mr.  Smith  is  not  bald, 

or 

Mr.  Smith  has  white  hair. 

And  you  can  deduct  the  twenty-five  cents  out  of 

my  allowance. 

Good-by  till  January — and  a  merry  Christmas! 


[56] 


Toward  the  end  of 
the  Christmas  vacation. 
Exact  date  unknown. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Is  it  snowing  where  you  are?  All  the  world  that  I 
see  from  my  tower  is  draped  in  white  and  the  flakes 
are  coming  down  as  big  as  pop-corn.  It's  late  after- 
noon— ^the  sun  is  just  setting  (a  cold  yellow  color) 
behind  some  colder  violet  hills,  and  I  am  up  in  my 
window  seat  using  the  last  light  to  write  to  you. 

Your  five  gold  pieces  were  a  surprise!  Fm  not  used 
to  receiving  Christmas  presents.  You  have  already 
given  me  such  lots  of  things — everything  I  have,  you 
know — that  I  don't  quite  feel  that  I  deserve  extras. 
But  I  like  them  just  the  same.  Do  you  want  to  know 
what  I  bought  with  my  money? 

I.  A  silver  watch  in  a  leather  case  to  wear  on  my 
wrist  and  get  me  to  recitations  on  time. 

II.  Matthew  Arnold's  poems. 

III.  A  hot  water  bottle. 

[57] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

IV.  A  steamer  rug.   (My  tower  is  cold.) 

V.  Five  hundred  sheets  of  yellow  manuscript  pa- 
per. (Fm  going  to  commence  being  an  author  pretty 
soon.) 

VL  A  dictionary  of  synonyms.  (To  enlarge  the 
author's  vocabulary.) 

Vn.  (I  don't  much  like  to  confess  this  last  item, 
but  I  will.)  A  pair  of  silk  stockings. 

And  now,  Daddy,  never  say  I  don't  tell  all! 

It  was  a  very  low  motive,  if  you  must  know  it, 
that  prompted  the  silk  stockings.  Julia  Pendleton 
comes  into  my  room  to  do  geometry,  and  she  sits 
cross  legged  on  the  couch  and  wears  silk  stockings 
every  night.  But  just  wait — as  soon  as  she  gets  back 
from  vacation  I  shall  go  in  and  sit  on  her  couch  in 
my  silk  stockings.  You  see.  Daddy,  the  miserable 
creature  that  I  am — ^but  at  least  I'm  honest;  and  you 
knew  already,  from  my  asylum  record,  that  I  wasn't 
perfect,  didn't  you? 

To  recapitulate  (that's  the  way  the  English  instruc- 
tor begins  every  other  sentence),  I  am  very  much 
obliged  for  my  seven  presents.  I'm  pretending  to  my- 
self that  they  came  in  a  box  from  my  family  in  Cali- 
fornia. The  watch  is  from  father,  the  rug  from 
mother,  the  hot  water  bottle  from  grandmother — 
who  is  always  worrying  for  fear  I  shall  catch  cold  in 

[55] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

this  climate — and  the  yellow  paper  from  my  little 
brother  Harry.  My  sister  Isobel  gave  me  the  silk 
stockings,  and  Aunt  Susan  the  Matthew  Arnold 
poems;  Uncle  Harry  (little  Harry  is  named  for  him) 
gave  me  the  dictionary.  He  wanted  to  send  choco- 
lates, but  I  insisted  on  synonyms. 

You  don't  object,  do  you,  to  playing  the  part  of  a 
composite  family.? 

And  now,  shall  I  tell  you  about  my  vacation,  or  are 
you  only  interested  in  my  education  as  such?  I  hope 
you  appreciate  the  delicate  shade  of  meaning  in  "as 
such."  It  is  the  latest  addition  to  my  vocabulary. 

The  girl  from  Texas  is  named  Leonora  Fenton. 
(Almost  as  funny  as  Jerusha,  isn't  it? )  I  like  her,  but 
not  so  much  as  SaUie  McBride;  I  shall  never  like  any 
one  so  much  as  Sallie — except  you.  I  must  always  like 
you  the  best  of  all,  because  you're  my  whole  family 
roiled  into  one.  Leonora  and  I  and  two  Sophomores 
have  walked  'cross  country  every  pleasant  day  and 
explored  the  whole  neighborhood,  dressed  in  short 
skirts  and  knit  jackets  and  caps,  and  carrying  shinny 
sticks  to  whack  things  with.  Once  we  walked  into 
town — four  miles — and  stopped  at  a  restaurant  where 
the  college  girls  go  for  dinner.  Broiled  lobster  (35 
cents)  and  for  dessert,  buckwheat  cakes  and  maple 
syrup  (15  cents).  Nourishing  and  cheap. 

[59] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

It  was  such  a  lark!  Especially  for  me,  because  it 
was  so  awfully  different  from  the  asylum — ^I  feel  like 
an  escaped  convict  every  time  I  leave  the  campus. 
Before  I  thought,  I  started  to  tell  the  others  what  an 
experience  I  was  having.  The  cat  was  almost  out  of 
the  bag  when  I  grabbed  it  by  its  tail  and  pulled  it 
back.  It's  awfully  hard  for  me  not  to  tell  everything 
I  know.  Fm  a  very  confiding  soul  by  nature;  if  I 
didn't  have  you  to  tell  things  to,  I'd  burst. 

We  had  a  molasses  candy  pull  last  Friday  evening, 
given  by  the  house  matron  of  Fergussen  to  the  left- 
behinds  in  the  other  halls.  There  were  twenty-two  of 
us  altogether,  Freshmen  and  Sophomores  and  Juniors 
and  Seniors  all  united  in  amicable  accord.  The 
kitchen  is  huge,  with  copper  pots  and  kettles  hanging 
in  rows  on  the  stone  wall — the  littlest  casserole  among 
them  about  the  size  of  a  wash  boiler.  Four  hundred 
girls  live  in  Fergussen.  The  chef,  in  a  white  cap  and 
apron,  fetched  out  twenty-two  other  white  caps  and 
aprons — I  can't  imagine  where  he  got  so  many — and 
we  all  turned  ourselves  into  cooks. 

It  was  great  fun,  though  I  have  seen  better  candy. 
When  it  was  finally  finished,  and  ourselves  and  the 
kitchen  and  the  doorknobs  all  thoroughly  sticky,  we 
organized  a  procession  and  still  in  our  caps  and  aprons, 
each  carrying  a  big  fork  or  spoon  or  frying  pan,  we 

[60] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

marched  through  the  empty  corridors  to  the  officers' 
parlor  where  half-a-dozen  professors  and  instructors 
were  passing  a  tranquil  evening.  We  serenaded  them 
with  college  songs  and  offered  refreshments.  They 
accepted  politely  but  dubiously.  We  left  them  suck- 
ing chunks  of  molasses  candy,  sticky  and  speechless. 


So  you  see,  Daddy,  my  education  progresses! 

Don't  you  really  think  that  I  ought  to  be  an  artist 
instead  of  an  author? 

Vacation  will  be  over  in  two  days  and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  the  girls  again.  My  tower  is  just  a  trifle 
lonely;  when  nine  people  occupy  a  house  that  was 
built  for  four  hundred,  they  do  rattle  around  a  bit. 

Eleven  pages — poor  Daddy,  you  must  be  tired!  I 
meant  this  to  be  just  a  short  little  thank-you  note — 
but  when  I  get  started  I  seem  to  have  a  ready  pen. 

[6i] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Good-by,  and  thank  you  for  thinking  of  me — ^I 
should  be  perfectly  happy  except  for  one  little  threat- 
ening cloud  on  the  horizon.  Examinations  come  in 
February. 

Yours  with  love, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  Maybe  it  isn't  proper  to  send  love?  If  it  isn't, 
please  excuse.  But  I  must  love  somebody  and  there's 
only  you  and  Mrs.  Lippett  to  choose  between,  so  you 
see — ^you'll  have  to  put  up  with  it,  Daddy  dear,  be- 
cause I  can't  love  her. 


[62] 


On  the  Eve. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

You  should  see  the  way  this  college  is  studying! 
We've  forgotten  we  ever  had  a  vacation.  Fifty-seven 
irregular  verbs  have  I  introduced  to  my  brain  in  the 
past  four  days — Fm  only  hoping  they'll  stay  till  after 
examinations. 

Some  of  the  girls  sell  their  text-books  when  they're 
through  with  them,  but  I  intend  to  keep  mine.  Then 
after  I've  graduated  I  shall  have  my  whole  education 
in  a  row  in  the  bookcase,  and  when  I  need  to  use 
any  detail,  I  can  turn  to  it  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion. So  much  easier  and  more  accurate  than  trying  to 
keep  it  in  your  head. 

Julia  Pendleton  dropped  in  this  evening  to  pay  a 
social  call,  and  stayed  a  soHd  hour.  She  got  started  on 
the  subject  of  family,  and  I  couldnh  switch  her  off. 
She  wanted  to  know  what  my  mother's  maiden  name 
was — did  you  ever  hear  such  an  impertinent  question 
to  ask  of  a  person  from  a  foundling  asylum?   I  didn't 

[63] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

have  the  courage  to  say  I  didn't  know,  so  I  just  mis- 
erably plumped  on  the  first  name  I  could  think  of,  and 
that  was  Montgomery.  Then  she  wanted  to  know 
whether  I  belonged  to  the  Massachusetts  Montgom- 
erys  or  the  Virginia  Montgomerys. 

Her  mother  was  a  Rutherford.  The  family  came 
over  in  the  ark,  and  were  connected  by  marriage  with 
Henry  the  VIIL  On  her  father's  side  they  date  back 
further  than  Adam.  On  the  topmost  branches  of  her 
family  tree  there's  a  superior  breed  of  monkeys,  with 
very  fine  silky  hair  and  extra  long  tails. 

I  meant  to  write  you  a  nice,  cheerful,  entertaining 
letter  to-night,  but  I'm  too  sleepy — and  scared.  The 
Freshman's  lot  is  not  a  happy  one. 

Yours,  about  to  be  examined, 

Judy  Abbott. 


[64] 


Sunday. 
Dearest  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  have  some  awful,  awful,  awful  news  to  tell  you, 
but  I  won't  begin  with  it;  I'll  try  to  get  you  in  a  good 
humor  first. 

Jerusha  Abbott  has  commenced  to  be  an  author. 
A  poem  entitled,  "From  my  Tower,"  appears  in  the 
February  Monthly — on  the  first  page,  which  is  a  very 
great  honor  for  a  Freshman.  My  English  instructor 
stopped  me  on  the  way  out  from  chapel  last  night, 
and  said  it  was  a  charming  piece  of  work  except  for 
the  sixth  line,  which  had  too  many  feet.  I  will  send 
you  a  copy  in  case  you  care  to  read  it. 

Let  me  see  if  I  can't  think  of  something  else  pleasant 
— Oh,  yes!  I'm  learning  to  skate,  and  can  glide  about 
quite  respectably  all  by  myself.  Also  I've  learned  how 
to  slide  down  a  rope  from  the  roof  of  the  gymnasium, 
and  I  can  vault  a  bar  three  feet  and  six  inches  high — 
I  hope  shortly  to  pull  up  to  four  feet. 

We  had  a  very  inspiring  sermon  this  morning 
preached  by  the  Bishop  of  Alabama.  His  text  was: 
"Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged."    It  was  about 

[65] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

the  necessity  of  overlooking  mistakes  in  others,  and 
not  discouraging  people  by  harsh  judgments.  I  wish 
you  might  have  heard  it. 

This  is  the  sunniest,  most  blinding  winter  afternoon, 
with  icicles  dripping  from  the  fir  trees  and  all  the 
world  bending  under  a  weight  of  snow — except  me, 
and  Fm  bending  under  a  weight  of  sorrow. 

Now  for  the  news — courage,  Judy! — you  must  tell. 

Are  you  surely  in  a  good  humor?  I  flunked  mathe- 
matics and  Latin  prose.  I  am  tutoring  in  them,  and 
will  take  another  examination  next  month.  Fm  sorry 
if  you're  disappointed,  but  otherwise  I  don't  care  a 
bit  because  Fve  learned  such  a  lot  of  things  not  men- 
tioned in  the  catalogue.  Fve  read  seventeen  novels 
and  bushels  of  poetry — really  necessary  novels  like 
"Vanity  Fair"  and  "Richard  Feverel"  and  "Alice  in 
Wonderland."  Also  Emerson's  "Essays"  and  Lock- 
hart's  "Life  of  Scott"  and  the  first  volume  of  Gibbon's 
"Roman  Empire"  and  half  of  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
"Life" — ^wasn't  he  entertaining?  He  used  to  saunter 
out  and  casually  kill  a  man  before  breakfast. 

So  you  see,  Daddy,  Fm  much  more  intelligent  than 
if  Fd  just  stuck  to  Latin.  Will  you  forgive  me  this 
once  if  I  promise  never  to  flunk  again? 

Yours  in  sackcloth, 

Judy. 

[66] 


NEWS  of  the  MONTH 


She  receives 

and  5k<dS 
man^  tears 


Jud^  learns 
to  sKate 


8ut  promises 
to  study 

HARD 


f  T 


[67J 


Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

This  is  an  extra  letter  in  the  middle  of  the  month 
because  Vm  sort  of  lonely  tonight.  It's  awfully- 
stormy;  the  snow  is  beating  against  my  tower.  All 
the  lights  are  out  on  the  campus,  but  I  drank  black 
coffee  and  I  can't  go  to  sleep. 

I  had  a  supper  party  this  evening  consisting  of  Sallie 
and  Julia  and  Leonora  Fenton — and  sardines  and 
toasted  muffins  and  salad  and  fudge  and  coffee.  Julia 
said  she'd  had  a  good  time,  but  Sallie  stayed  to  help 
wash  the  dishes. 

I  might,  very  usefully,  put  some  time  on  Latin 
to-night — ^but,  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  I'm  a  very 
languid  Latin  scholar.  We've  finished  Livy  and  De 
Senectute  and  are  now  engaged  with  De  Amicitia 
(pronounced  Damn  Icitia). 

Should  you  mind,  just  for  a  little  while,  pretending 
you  are  my  grandmother?  SalHe  has  one  and  Julia 
and  Leonora  each  two,  and  they  were  all  comparing 
them  to-night.  I  can't  think  of  anything  I'd  rather 
have;  it's  such  a  respectable  relationship.  So,  if  you 
really  don't  object — ^When  I  went  into  town  yester- 

[68] 


day,  I  saw  the  sweetest  cap  of  Cluny  lace  trimmed 
with  lavender  ribbon.    I  am  going  to  make  you  a 
present  of  it  on  your  eighty-third  birthday. 
!!!!!!!!!!!! 

That's  the  clock  in  the  chapel  tower  striking  twelve. 
I  believe  I  am  sleepy  after  all. 

Good  night,  Granny. 

I  love  you  dearly, 

Judy. 


The  Ides  of  March. 
Dear  D.  L.  L., 

I  am  studying  Latin  prose  composition.  I  have  been 
studying  it.  I  shall  be  studying  it.  I  shall  be  about  to 
have  been  studying  it.  My  reexamination  comes  the 
7th  hour  next  Tuesday,  and  I  am  going  to  pass  or 
BUST.  So  you  may  expect  to  hear  from  me  next, 
whole  and  happy  and  free  from  conditions,  or  in  frag- 
ments. 

I  will  write  a  respectable  letter  when  it's  over.  To- 
night I  have  a  pressing  engagement  with  the  Ablative 
Absolute. 

Yours — in  evident  haste, 

J.  A. 
[6p] 


March  26th. 
Mr,  D,  L.  L.  S7mth, 

Sir:  You  never  answer  any  questions;  you  never 
show  the  slightest  interest  in  anything  I  do.  You  are 
probably  the  horridest  one  of  all  those  horrid  Trus- 
tees, and  the  reason  you  are  educating  me  is,  not  be- 
cause you  care  a  bit  about  me,  but  from  a  sense  of 
Duty. 

I  don't  know  a  single  thing  about  you.  I  don't  even 
know  your  name.  It  is  very  uninspiring  writing  to  a 
Thing.  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  that  you  throw  my 
letters  into  the  waste-basket  without  reading  them. 
Hereafter  I  shall  write  only  about  work. 

My  reexaminations  in  Latin  and  geometry  came 
last  week.  I  passed  them  both  and  am  now  free  from 
conditions. 

Yours  truly, 
Jerusha  Abbott. 


[70] 


April  2d. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  am  a  BEAST. 

Please  forget  about  that  dreadful  letter  I  sent  you 
last  week — I  was  feeling  terribly  lonely  and  miserable 
and  sore-throaty  the  night  I  wrote.  I  didn't  know  it, 
but  I  was  just  coming  down  with  tonsillitis  and  grippe 
and  lots  of  things  mixed.  Fm  in  the  infirmary  now, 
and  have  been  here  for  six  days;  this  is  the  first  time 
they  would  let  me  sit  up  and  have  a  pen  and  paper. 
The  head  nurse  is  very  bossy.  But  I've  been  thinking 
about  it  all  the  time  and  I  shan't  get  well  until  you 
forgive  me. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  way  I  look,  with  a  bandage 
tied  around  my  head  in  rabbit's  ears. 


[7/] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Doesn't  that  arouse  your  sympathy?  I  am  having 
sublingual  gland  swelling.  And  IVe  been  studying 
physiology  all  the  year  without  ever  hearing  of  sub- 
lingual glands.  How  futile  a  thing  is  education! 

I  can't  write  any  more;  I  get  sort  of  shaky  when  I 
sit  up  too  long.  Please  forgive  me  for  being  im- 
pertinent and  ungrateful.  I  was  badly  brought  up. 

Yours  with  love, 

Judy  Abbott. 


[7^] 


The  Infirmary. 

April  4th. 

Dearest  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Yesterday  evening  just  toward  dark,  when  I  was 
sitting  up  in  bed  looking  out  at  the  rain  and  feeling 
awfully  bored  with  life  in  a  great  institution,  the  nurse 
appeared  with  a  long  white  box  addressed  to  me,  and 
filled  with  the  loveliest  pink  rosebuds.  And  much 
nicer  still,  it  contained  a  card  with  a  very  polite  mes- 
sage written  in  a  funny  little  uphill  back  hand  (but 
one  which  shows  a  great  deal  of  character).  Thank 
you,  Daddy,  a  thousand  times.  Your  flowers  make 
the  first  real,  true  present  I  ever  received  in  my  life. 
If  you  want  to  know  what  a  baby  I  am,  I  lay  down 
and  cried  because  I  was  so  happy. 

Now  that  I  am  sure  you  read  my  letters,  I'll  make 
them  much  more  interesting,  so  they'll  be  worth  keep- 
ing in  a  safe  with  red  tape  around  them — only  please 
take  out  that  dreadful  one  and  burn  it  up.  I'd  hate  to 
think  that  you  ever  read  it  over. 

[75] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Thank  you  for  making  a  very  sick,  cross,  miserable 
Freshman  cheerful.  Probably  you  have  lots  of  loving 
family  and  friends,  and  you  don't  know  what  it  feels 
like  to  be  alone.  But  I  do. 

Good-by — I'll  promise  never  to  be  horrid  again, 
because  now  I  know  you're  a  real  person;  also  I'll 
promise  never  to  bother  you  with  any  more  questions. 

Do  you  still  hate  girls? 

Yours  forever, 

Judy. 


[7^] 


8th  hour,  Monday. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  hope  you  aren't  the  Trustee  who  sat  on  the  toad? 
It  went  off — I  was  told — with  quite  a  pop,  so  probably 
he  was  a  fatter  Trustee. 

Do  you  remember  the  little  dugout  places  with 
gratings  over  them  by  the  laundry  windows  in  the 
John  Grier  Home?  Every  spring  when  the  hoptoad 
season  opened  we  used  to  form  a  collection  of  toads 
and  keep  them  in  those  window  holes;  and  occasion- 
ally they  would  spill  over  into  the  laundry,  causing 
a  very  pleasurable  commotion  on  wash  days.  We 
were  severely  punished  for  our  activities  in  this  di- 
rection, but  in  spite  of  all  discouragement  the  toads 
would  collect. 

And  one  day — well,  I  won't  bore  you  with  particu- 
lars— but  somehow,  one  of  the  fattest,  biggest,  juiciest 
toads  got  into  one  of  those  big  leather  arm  chairs  in  the 
Trustees'  room,  and  that  afternoon  at  the  Trustees' 
meeting —  But  I  dare  say  you  were  there  and  recall 
the  rest? 

Looking  back  dispassionately  after  a  period  of  time, 

[75] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I  will  say  that  punishment  was  merited,  and — ^if  I  re- 
member rightly — adequate. 

I  don't  know  why  I  am  in  such  a  reminiscent  mood 
except  that  spring  and  the  reappearance  of  toads  al- 
ways awakens  the  old  acquisitive  instinct.  The  only 
thing  that  keeps  me  from  starting  a  collection  is  the 
fact  that  no  rule  exists  against  it. 

After  chapel,  Thursday. 

What  do  you  think  is  my  favorite  book?  Just  now, 
I  mean;  I  change  every  three  days.  "Wuthering 
Heights."  Emily  Bronte  was  quite  young  when  she 
wrote  it,  and  had  never  been  outside  of  Haworth 
churchyard.  She  had  never  known  any  men  in  her 
life;  how  could  she  imagine  a  man  like  Heathcliffe? 

I  couldn't  do  it,  and  Fm  quite  young  and  never 
outside  the  John  Grier  Asylum — Fve  had  every 
chance  in  the  world.  Sometimes  a  dreadful  fear  comes 
over  me  that  I'm  not  a  genius.  Will  you  be  awfully 
disappointed,  Daddy,  if  I  don't  turn  out  to  be  a  great 
author?  In  the  spring  when  everything  is  so  beautiful 
and  green  and  budding,  I  feel  like  turning  my  back  on 
lessons,  and  running  away  to  play  with  the  weather. 
There  are  such  lots  of  adventures  out  in  the  fields! 
It's  much  more  entertaining  to  live  books  than  to  write 
them. 

[7^] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 
Ow  !  !  !  !  !  ! 

That  was  a  shriek  which  brought  Sallie  and  Julia 
and  (for  a  disgusted  moment)  the  Senior  from  across 
the  hall.  It  was  caused  by  a  centipede  like  this: 


only  worse.  Just  as  I  had  finished  the  last  sentence  and 
was  thinking  what  to  say  next — plump! — it  fell  off  the 
ceiling  and  landed  at  my  side.  I  tipped  two  cups  off 
the  tea  table  in  trying  to  get  away.  SaHie  whacked  it 
with  the  back  of  my  hair  brush — which  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  use  again — and  killed  the  front  end,  but  the 
rear  fifty  feet  ran  under  the  bureau  and  escaped. 

This  dormitory,  owing  to  its  age  and  ivy-covered 
walls,  is  full  of  centipedes.  They  are  dreadful  crea- 
tures.  I'd  rather  find  a  tiger  under  the  bed. 

Friday,  9.30  p.m. 

Such  a  lot  of  troubles!  I  didn't  hear  the  rising  bell 
this  morning,  then  I  broke  my  shoe-string  while  I  was 
hurrying  to  dress  and  dropped  my  collar  button  down 
my  neck.   I  was  late  for  breakfast  and  also  for  first- 

[77] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

hour  recitation.  I  forgot  to  take  any  blotting  paper 
and  my  fountain  pen  leaked.  In  trigonometry  the 
Professor  and  I  had  a  disagreement  touching  a  little 
matter  of  logarithms.  On  looking  it  up,  I  find  that  she 
was  right.  We  had  mutton  stew  and  pie-plant  for 
lunch — ^hate  'em  both;  they  taste  like  the  asylum. 
Nothing  but  bills  in  my  mail  (though  I  must  say  that 
I  never  do  get  anything  else;  my  family  are  not  the 
kind  that  write).  In  English  class  this  afternoon  we 
had  an  unexpected  written  lesson.  This  was  it: 

I  asked  no  other  thing, 
No  other  was  denied. 
I  offered  Being  for  it; 
The  mighty  merchant  smiled. 

Brazil?  He  twirled  a  button 
Without  a  glance  my  way: 
But,  madam,  is  there  nothing  else 
That  we  can  show  to-day? 

That  is  a  poem.  I  don't  know  who  wrote  it  or  what 
it  means.  It  was  simply  printed  out  on  the  blackboard 
when  we  arrived  and  we  were  ordered  to  comment 
upon  it.  When  I  read  the  first  verse  I  thought  I  had 
an  idea — The  Mighty  Merchant  was  a  divinity  who 
distributes  blessings  in  return  for  virtuous  deeds — ^but 

[78] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

when  I  got  to  the  second  verse  and  found  him  twirl- 
ing a  button,  it  seemed  a  blasphemous  supposition,  and 
I  hastily  changed  my  mind.  The  rest  of  the  class  was 
in  the  same  predicament;  and  there  we  sat  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  with  blank  paper  and  equally 
blank  minds.  Getting  an  education  is  an  awfully  wear- 
ing process! 

But  this  didn't  end  the  day.  There's  worse  to  come. 

It  rained  so  we  couldn't  play  golf,  but  had  to  go  to 
gymnasium  instead.  The  girl  next  to  me  banged  my 
elbow  with  an  Indian  club.  I  got  home  to  find  that 
the  box  with  my  new  blue  spring  dress  had  come,  and 
the  skirt  was  so  tight  that  I  couldn't  sit  down.  Friday 
is  sweeping  day,  and  the  maid  had  mixed  all  the  papers 
on  my  desk.  We  had  tombstone  for  dessert  (milk  and 
gelatin  flavored  with  vanilla).  We  were  kept  in 
chapel  twenty  minutes  later  than  usual  to  listen  to  a 
speech  about  womanly  women.  And  then — just  as  I 
was  settling  down  with  a  sigh  of  well-earned  relief  to 
"The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  a  girl  named  Ackerly,  a 
dough-faced,  deadly,  unintermittently  stupid  girl,  who 
sits  next  to  me  in  Latin  because  her  name  begins  with  A 
(I  wish  Mrs.  Lippett  had  named  me  Zabriski),  came 
to  ask  if  Monday's  lesson  commenced  at  paragraph  69 
or  70,  and  stayed  ONE  HOUR.  She  has  just  gone. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  discouraging  series  of 

[79] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

events?  It  isn't  the  big  troubles  in  life  that  require 
character.  Anybody  can  rise  to  a  crisis  and  face  a 
crushing  tragedy  with  courage,  but  to  meet  the  petty 
hazards  of  the  day  with  a  laugh — I  really  think  that 
requires  spirit. 

It's  the  kind  of  character  that  I  am  going  to  develop. 
I  am  going  to  pretend  that  all  life  is  just  a  game  which 
I  must  play  as  skilfully  and  fairly  as  I  can.  If  I  lose, 
I  am  going  to  shrug  my  shoulders  and  laugh — also  if  I 
win. 

Anyway,  I  am  going  to  be  a  sport.  You  will  never 
hear  me  complain  again.  Daddy  dear,  because  JuHa 
wears  silk  stockings  and  centipedes  drop  off  the  wall. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

Answer  soon. 


[80] 


May  27th. 
Daddy -Long-Legs,  Esq. 

Dear  Sir:  I  am  in  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Lippett.  She  hopes  that  I  am  doing  well  in  deportment 
and  studies.  Since  I  probably  have  no  place  to  go  this 
summer,  she  will  let  me  come  back  to  the  asylum  and 
work  for  my  board  until  college  opens. 
I  HATE  THE  JOHN  GRIER  HOME. 
Fd  rather  die  than  go  back. 

Yours  most  truthfully, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 


[8i] 


Cher  Daddy 'Jambes-Longes, 

Vous  etes  un  brick! 

]e  suis  tres  heureuse  about  the  farm,  parsque  je  n^ai 
jamais  been  on  a  farm  dans  ma  vie  and  I'd  hate  to 
retourner  chez  John  Grier,  et  wash  dishes  tout  Vete, 
There  would  be  danger  of  quelque  chose  affreuse  hap- 
pening, parsque  fai  perdue  via  humilite  d" autre  fois  et 
fat  peur  that  I  would  just  break  out  quelque  jour  et 
smash  every  cup  and  saucer  dans  la  maison. 

Pardon  brievete  et  paper.  ]e  ne  peux  pas  send  des 
mes  nouvelles  parseque  je  suis  dans  French  class  et  fai 
peur  que  Monsieur  le  Professeur  is  going  to  call  on  me 
tout  de  suite. 


He  did! 


Au  revotr, 
Je  vous  aime  heaucoup, 

Judy. 


[82] 


May  30th. 

Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  see  this  campus?  (That  is  merely  a 
rhetorical  question.  Don't  let  it  annoy  you.)  It  is  a 
heavenly  spot  in  May.  All  the  shrubs  are  in  blossom 
and  the  trees  are  the  loveliest  young  green — even  the 
old  pines  look  fresh  and  new.  The  grass  is  dotted  with 
yellow  dandelions  and  hundreds  of  girls  in  blue  and 
white  and  pink  dresses.  Everybody  is  joyous  and  care- 
free, for  vacation's  coming,  and  with  that  to  look 
forward  to,  examinations  don't  count. 

Isn't  that  a  happy  frame  of  mind  to  be  in?  And  oh, 
Daddy!  I'm  the  happiest  of  all!  Because  I'm  not  in 
the  asylum  any  more;  and  I'm  not  anybody's  nurse- 
maid or  typewriter  or  bookkeeper  (I  should  have 
been,  you  know,  except  for  you). 

I'm  sorry  now  for  all  my  past  badnesses. 

I'm  sorry  I  was  ever  impertinent  to  Mrs.  Lippett. 

I'm  sorry  I  ever  slapped  Freddie  Perkins. 

I'm  sorry  I  ever  filled  the  sugar  bowl  with  salt. 

[83] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Fm  sorry  I  ever  made  faces  behind  the  Trustees' 
backs. 

Fm  going  to  be  good  and  sweet  and  kind  to  every- 
body because  Fm  so  happy.  And  this  summer  Fm 
going  to  write  and  write  and  write  and  begin  to  be  a 
great  author.  Isn't  that  an  exalted  stand  to  take?  Oh, 
Fm  developing  a  beautiful  character!  It  droops  a  bit 
under  cold  and  frost,  but  it  does  grow  fast  when  the 
sun  shines. 

That's  the  way  with  everybody.  I  don't  agree  with 
the  theory  that  adversity  and  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment develop  moral  strength.  The  happy  people  are 
the  ones  who  are  bubbling  over  with  kindliness.  I 
have  no  faith  in  misanthropes.  (Fine  word!  Just 
learned  it.)  You  are  not  a  misanthrope,  are  you, 
Daddy? 

I  started  to  tell  you  about  the  campus.  I  wish  you'd 
come  for  a  little  visit  and  let  me  walk  you  about  and 
say: 

"That  is  the  library.  This  is  the  gas  plant.  Daddy 
dear.  The  Gothic  building  on  your  left  is  the  gym- 
nasium, and  the  Tudor  Romanesque  beside  it  is  the 
new  infirmary." 

Oh,  Fm  fine  at  showing  people  about.  I've  done  it 
all  my  life  at  the  asylum,  and  I've  been  doing  it  all  day 
here.  I  have  honestly. 

[84] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

And  a  Man,  too! 

That's  a  great  experience.  I  never  talked  to  a  man 
before  (except  occasional  Trustees,  and  they  don't 
count).  Pardon,  Daddy.  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings  when  I  abuse  Trustees.  I  don't  consider  that 
you  really  belong  among  them.  You  just  tumbled 
onto  the  Board  by  chance.  The  Trustee,  as  such,  is 
fat  and  pompous  and  benevolent.  He  pats  one  on  the 
head  and  wears  a  gold  watch  chain. 


That  looks  like  a  June  bug,  but  is  meant  to  be  a 
portrait  of  any  Trustee  except  you. 

[85] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

However — to  resume: 

I  have  been  walking  and  talking  and  having  tea  with 
a  man.  And  with  a  very  superior  man — with  Mr.  Jervis 
Pendleton  of  the  House  of  Julia;  her  uncle,  in  short 
(in  long,  perhaps  I  ought  to  say;  he's  as  tall  as  you). 
Being  in  town  on  business,  he  decided  to  run  out  to 
the  college  and  call  on  his  niece.  He's  her  father's 
youngest  brother,  but  she  doesn't  know  him  very 
intimately.  It  seems  he  glanced  at  her  when  she  was  a 
baby,  decided  he  didn't  like  her,  and  has  never  noticed 
her  since. 

Anyway,  there  he  was,  sitting  in  the  reception  room 
very  proper  with  his  hat  and  stick  and  gloves  beside 
him;  and  Julia  and  Sallie  with  seventh-hour  recitations 
that  they  couldn't  cut.  So  JuHa  dashed  into  my  room 
and  begged  me  to  walk  him  about  the  campus  and 
then  deliver  him  to  her  when  the  seventh  hour  was 
over.  I  said  I  would,  obligingly  but  unenthusiastically, 
because  I  don't  care  much  for  Pendletons. 

But  he  turned  out  to  be  a  sweet  lamb.  He's  a  real 
human  being — not  a  Pendleton  at  all.  We  had  a  beau- 
tiful time;  I've  longed  for  an  uncle  ever  since.  Do  you 
mind  pretending  you're  my  uncle?  I  beHeve  they're 
superior  to  grandmothers. 

Mr.  Pendleton  reminded  me  a  little  of  you.  Daddy, 

[86] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

as  you  were  twenty  years  ago.  You  see  I  know  you 
intimately,  even  if  we  haven't  ever  met! 

He's  tall  and  thinnish  with  a  dark  face  all  over  lines, 
and  the  funniest  underneath  smile  that  never  quite 
comes  through  but  just  wrinkles  up  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  And  he  has  a  way  of  making  you  feel  right  off 
as  though  you'd  known  him  a  long  time.  He's  very 
companionable. 

We  walked  all  over  the  campus  from  the  quad- 
rangle to  the  athletic  grounds;  then  he  said  he  felt 
weak  and  must  have  some  tea.  He  proposed  that  we 
go  to  College  Inn — it's  just  off  the  campus  by  the  pine 
walk.  I  said  we  ought  to  go  back  for  JuHa  and  Sallie, 
but  he  said  he  didn't  like  to  have  his  nieces  drink  too 
much  tea;  it  made  them  nervous.  So  we  just  ran  away 
and  had  tea  and  muffins  and  marmalade  and  ice-cream 
and  cake  at  a  nice  little  table  out  on  the  balcony.  The 
inn  was  quite  conveniently  empty,  this  being  the  end 
of  the  month  and  allowances  low. 

We  had  the  jolHest  time!  But  he  had  to  run  for  his 
train  the  minute  he  got  back  and  he  barely  saw  JuHa 
at  all.  She  was  furious  with  me  for  taking  him  off;  it 
seems  he's  an  unusually  rich  and  desirable  uncle.  It 
relieved  my  mind  to  find  he  was  rich,  for  the  tea  and 
things  cost  sixty  cents  apiece. 

[87] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

This  morning  (it's  Monday  now)  three  boxes  of 
chocolates  came  by  express  for  Julia  and  Sallie  and  me. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?  To  be  getting  candy 
from  a  man! 

I  begin  to  feel  like  a  girl  instead  of  a  foundling. 

I  wish  you'd  come  and  take  tea  some  day  and  le' 
me  see  if  I  like  you.  But  wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  1 
didn't?   However,  I  know  I  should. 

Bienf   I  make  you  my  compliments. 

'^]anms  je  ne  f  oublierair 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I  looked  in  the  glass  this  morning  and  found  a 
perfectly  new  dimple  that  I'd  never  seen  before.  It's 
very  curious.  Where  do  you  suppose  it  came  from? 


188] 


June  9th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Happy  day!  I've  just  finished  my  last  examination 
— Physiology.   And  now: 

Three  months  on  a  farm! 

I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  thing  a  farm  is.  I've 
never  been  on  one  in  my  life.  I've  never  even  looked 
at  one  (except  from  the  car  window),  but  I  know  Fm 
going  to  love  it,  and  I'm  going  to  love  being  ^ree. 

I  am  not  used  even  yet  to  being  outside  the  John 
Grier  Home.  Whenever  I  think  of  it  excited  Httle 
thrills  chase  up  and  down  my  back.  I  feel  as  though  I 
must  run  faster  and  faster  and  keep  looking  over  my 
shoulder  to  make  sure  that  Mrs.  Lippett  isn't  after  me 
with  her  arm  stretched  out  to  grab  me  back. 

I  don't  have  to  mind  any  one  this  summer,  do  I? 

Your  nominal  authority  doesn't  annoy  me  in  the 
least;  you  are  too  far  away  to  do  any  harm.  Mrs. 
Lippett  is  dead  forever,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and 
the  Semples  aren't  expected  to  overlook  my  moral 

{89] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

welfare,  are  they?   No,  I  am  sure  not.  I  am  entirely 
grown  up.  Hooray! 

I  leave  you  now  to  pack  a  trunk,  and  three  boxes  of 
teakettles  and  dishes  and  sofa  cushions  and  books. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 
P.  S.  Here  is  my  physiology  exam.  Do  you  think 
you  could  have  passed? 


[90] 


Lock  Willow  Farm, 

Saturday  night. 
Dearest  Daddy -Long-Legs y 

I've  only  just  come  and  I'm  not  unpacked,  but  I 
can't  wait  to  tell  you  how  much  I  like  farms.  This  is  a 
heavenly,  heavenly,  heavenly  spot!  The  house  is 
square  like  this: 


And  old.  A  hundred  years  or  so.  It  has  a  veranda  on 
the  side  which  I  can't  draw  and  a  sweet  porch  in  front. 
The  picture  really  doesn't  do  it  justice — those  things 
that  look  like  feather  dusters  are  maple  trees,  and  the 
prickly  ones  that  border  the  drive  are  murmuring 

[91] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

pines  and  hemlocks.  It  stands  on  the  top  of  a  hill  and 
looks  way  off  over  miles  of  green  meadows  to  another 
line  of  hills. 


That  is  the  way  Connecticut  goes,  in  a  series  of 
Marcelle  waves;  and  Lock  Willow  Farm  is  just  on  the 
crest  of  one  wave.  The  barns  used  to  be  across  the 
road  where  they  obstructed  the  view,  but  a  kind  flash 
of  lightning  came  from  heaven  and  burnt  them  down. 

The  people  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Semple  and  a  hired 
girl  and  two  hired  men.  The  hired  people  eat  in  the 
kitchen,  and  the  Semples  and  Judy  in  the  dining-room. 
We  had  ham  and  eggs  and  biscuits  and  honey  and 
jelly-cake  and  pie  and  pickles  and  cheese  and  tea  for 
supper — and  a  great  deal  of  conversation.  I  have  never 
been  so  entertaining  in  my  life;  everything  I  say  ap- 
pears to  be  funny.  I  suppose  it  is  because  Fve  never 
been  in  the  country  before,  and  my  questions  are 
backed  by  an  all-inclusive  ignorance. 

The  room  marked  with  a  cross  is  not  where  the 
murder  was  committed,  but  the  one  that  I  occupy.  It's 
big  and  square  and  empty,  with  adorable  old-fashioned 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

furniture  and  windows  that  have  to  be  propped  up  on 
sticks  and  green  shades  trimmed  with  gold  that  fall 
down  if  you  touch  them.  And  a  big  square  mahogany 
table — Fm  going  to  spend  the  summer  with  my  el- 
bows spread  out  on  it,  writing  a  novel. 

Oh,  Daddy,  Fm  so  excited!  I  can't  wait  till  daylight 
to  explore.  It's  8.30  now,  and  I  am  about  to  blow  out 
my  candle  and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  We  rise  at  Rvt.  Did 
you  ever  know  such  fun?  I  can't  believe  this  is  really 
Judy.  You  and  the  Good  Lord  give  me  more  than  I 
deserve.  I  must  be  a  very,  very,  very  good  person  to 
pay.  Fm  going  to  be.  You'll  see. 

Good  night, 

Judy. 

P.S.  You  should  hear  the  frogs  sing  and  the  little 
pigs  squeal — and  you  should  see  the  new  moon!  I  saw 
it  over  my  right  shoulder. 


[93] 


Lock  Willow, 

July  12th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

How  did  your  secretary  come  to  know  about  Lock 
Willow?  (That  isn't  a  rhetorical  question.  I  am 
awfully  curious  to  know.)  For  listen  to  this:  Mr. 
Jervis  Pendleton  used  to  own  this  farm,  but  now  he 
has  given  it  to  Mrs.  Semple  who  was  his  old  nurse. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  funny  coincidence?  She 
still  calls  him  "Master  Jervie"  and  talks  about  what  a 
sweet  little  boy  he  used  to  be.  She  has  one  of  his  baby 
curls  put  away  in  a  box,  and  it's  red — or  at  least 
reddish! 

Since  she  discovered  that  I  know  him,  I  have  risen 
very  much  in  her  opinion.  Knowing  a  member  of  the 
Pendleton  family  is  the  best  introduction  one  can 
have  at  Lock  Willow.  And  the  cream  of  the  whole 
family  is  Master  Jervie — I  am  pleased  to  say  that  Julia 
belongs  to  an  inferior  branch. 

The  farm  gets  more  and  more  entertaining.  I  rode 

[94] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

on  a  hay  wagon  yesterday.  We  have  three  big  pigs 
and  nine  little  piglets,  and  you  should  see  them  eat. 
They  are  pigs!  We've  oceans  of  little  baby  chickens 
and  ducks  and  turkeys  and  guinea  fovi^ls.  You  must 
be  mad  to  live  in  a  city  when  you  might  live  on  a 
farm. 

It  is  my  daily  business  to  hunt  the  eggs.  I  fell  off  a 
beam  in  the  bam  loft  yesterday,  while  I  was  trying  to 
crawl  over  to  a  nest  that  the  black  hen  has  stolen.  And 
when  I  came  in  with  a  scratched  knee,  Mrs.  Semple 
bound  it  up  with  witch-hazel,  murmuring  all  the  time, 
"Dear!  Dear!  It  seems  only  yesterday  that  Master 
Jervie  fell  off  that  very  same  beam  and  scratched  this 
very  same  knee." 

The  scenery  around  here  is  perfectly  beautiful. 
There's  a  valley  and  a  river  and  a  lot  of  wooded  hills, 
and  way  in  the  distance  a  tall  blue  mountain  that 
simply  melts  in  your  mouth. 

We  churn  twice  a  week;  and  we  keep  the  cream 
in  the  spring  house  which  is  made  of  stone  with  the 
brook  running  underneath.  Some  of  the  farmers 
around  here  have  a  separator,  but  we  don't  care  for 
these  new-fashioned  ideas.  It  may  be  a  little  harder  to 
take  care  of  cream  raised  in  pans,  but  it's  enough 
better  to  pay.  We  have  six  calves;  and  I've  chosen  the 
names  for  all  of  them. 

[95] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

1.  Sylvia,  because  she  was  bom  in  the  woods. 

2.  Lesbia,  after  the  Lesbia  in  Catullus. 

3.  Sallie. 

4.  Julia — a  spotted,  nondescript  animaL 

5.  Judy,  after  me. 

6.  Daddy-Long-Legs.    Yovi  don't  mind,  do  you. 


{96] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Daddy?  He's  pure  Jersey  and  has  a  sweet  disposition. 
He  looks  like  this — ^you  can  see  how  appropriate  the 
name  is. 

I  haven't  had  time  yet  to  begin  my  immortal  novel; 
the  farm  keeps  me  too  busy. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 


P.S.  I've  learned  to  make  doughnuts. 

P.S.  (2)  If  you  are  thinking  of  raising  chickens,  let 
me  recommend  Buff  Orpingtons.  They  haven't  any 
pin  feathers. 

P.S.  (3)1  wish  I  could  send  you  a  pat  of  the  nice, 
fresh  butter  I  churned  yesterday.  I'm  a  fine  dairy- 
maid! 

P.S.  (4)  This  is  a  picture  of  Miss  Jerusha  Abbott, 
the  future  great  author,  driving  home  the  cows. 


2>\r(i'i<l 


^Jrn 


[97] 


Sunday. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Isn't  it  funny?  I  started  to  write  to  you  yesterday 
afternoon,  but  as  far  as  I  got  was  the  heading,  "Dear 
Daddy-Long-Legs,"  and  then  I  remembered  I'd  prom- 
ised to  pick  some  blackberries  for  supper,  so  I  went  oif 
and  left  the  sheet  lying  on  the  table,  and  when  I  came 
back  to-day,  what  do  you  think  I  found  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  page?  A  real  true  Daddy-Long-Legs! 


I  picked  him  up  very  gently  by  one  leg,  and 
dropped  him  out  of  the  window.  I  wouldn't  hurt  one 
of  them  for  the  world.  They  always  remind  me  of 
you. 

[9^1 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

We  hitched  up  the  spring  wagon  this  morning  and 
drove  to  the  Center  to  church.  It's  a  sweet  Httle  white 
frame  church  with  a  spire  and  three  Doric  columns 
in  front  (or  maybe  Ionic — I  always  get  them  mixed). 

A  nice,  sleepy  sermon  with  everybody  drowsily 
waving  palm-leaf  fans,  and  the  only  sound  aside  from 
the  minister,  the  buzzing  of  locusts  in  the  trees  out- 
side. I  didn't  wake  up  till  I  found  myself  on  my  feet 
singing  the  hymn,  and  then  I  was  awfully  sorry  I 
hadn't  listened  to  the  sermon;  I  should  like  to  know 
more  of  the  psychology  of  a  man  who  would  pick 
out  such  a  hymn.  This  was  it: 

Come,  leave  your  sports  and  earthly  toys 
And  join  me  in  celestial  joys. 
Or  else,  dear  friend,  a  long  farewell. 
I  leave  you  now  to  sink  to  hell. 

I  find  that  it  isn't  safe  to  discuss  religion  with  the 
Semples.  Their  God  (whom  they  have  inherited  in- 
tact from  their  remote  Puritan  ancestors)  is  a  narrow, 
irrational,  unjust,  mean,  revengeful,  bigoted  Person. 
Thank  heaven  I  don't  inherit  any  God  from  anybody! 
I  am  free  to  make  mine  up  as  I  wish  Him.  He's  kind 
and  sympathetic  and  imaginative  and  forgiving  and 
understanding — and  He  has  a  sense  of  humor. 

I  like  the  Semples  immensely;  their  practice  is  so 

[99] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

superior  to  their  theory.  They  are  better  than  their 
own  God.  I  told  them  so — ^and  they  are  horribly 
troubled.  They  think  I  am  blasphemous — and  I  think 
they  are!  We've  dropped  theology  from  our  conver- 
sation. 

This  is  Sunday  afternoon. 

Amasai  (hired  man)  in  a  purple  tie  and  some  bright 
yellow  buckskin  gloves,  very  red  and  shaved,  has  just 
driven  off  with  Carrie  (hired  girl)  in  a  big  hat 
trimmed  with  red  roses  and  a  blue  muslin  dress  and 
her  hair  curled  as  tight  as  it  will  curl.  Amasai  spent 
all  the  morning  washing  the  buggy;  and  Carrie  stayed 
home  from  church  ostensibly  to  cook  the  dinner,  but 
really  to  iron  the  muslin  dress. 

In  two  minutes  more  when  this  letter  is  finished  I 
am  going  to  settle  down  to  a  book  which  I  found  in 
the  attic.  It's  entitled,  "On  the  Trail,"  and  sprawled 
across  the  front  page  in  a  funny  little-boy  hand: 

Jervis  Pendleton 
If  this  book  should  ever  roam, 
Box  its  ears  and  send  it  home. 

He  spent  the  summer  here  once  after  he  had  been 
ill,  when  he  was  about  eleven  years  old;  and  he  left 
"On  the  Trail"  behind.  It  looks  well  read — ^the  marks 

[lOo] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

of  his  grimy  little  hands  are  frequent!  Also  in  a  comer 
of  the  attic  there  is  a  water  wheel  and  a  windmill  and 
some  bows  and  arrows.  Mrs.  Semple  talks  so  con- 
stantly about  him  that  I  begin  to  believe  he  really  lives 
— not  a  grown  man  with  a  silk  hat  and  walking  stick, 
but  a  nice,  dirty,  tousle-headed  boy  who  clatters  up 
the  stairs  with  an  awful  racket,  and  leaves  the  screen 
doors  open,  and  is  always  asking  for  cookies.  (And 
getting  them,  too,  if  I  know  Mrs.  Semple! )  He  seems 
to  have  been  an  adventurous  little  soul — and  brave 
and  truthful.  Vm  sorry  to  think  he  is  a  Pendleton;  he 
was  meant  for  something  better. 

We're  going  to  begin  threshing  oats  tomorrow;  a 
steam  engine  is  coming  and  three  extra  men. 

It  grieves  me  to  tell  you  that  Buttercup  (the  spotted 
cow  with  one  horn,  mother  of  Lesbia)  has  done  a  dis- 
graceful thing.  She  got  into  the  orchard  Friday  eve- 
ning and  ate  apples  under  the  trees,  and  ate  and  ate 
until  they  went  to  her  head.  For  two  days  she  has 
been  perfectly  dead  drunk!  That  is  the  truth  I  am 
telling.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  scandalous? 

Sir, 
I  remain, 
Your  affectionate  orphan, 

Judy  Abbott. 

[lOl] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

P.S.  Indians  in  the  first  chapter  and  highwaymen  in 
the  second.  I  hold  my  breath.  What  can  the  third 
contain?  "Red  Hawk  leapt  twenty  feet  in  the  air  and 
bit  the  dust."  That  is  the  subject  of  the  frontispiece. 
Aren't  Judy  and  Jervie  having  fun? 


[^02] 


September  15th. 
Dear  Daddy, 

I  was  weighed  yesterday  on  the  flour  scales  in  the 
general  store  at  the  Comers.  I've  gained  nine  pounds! 
Let  me  recommend  Lock  Willow  as  a  health  resort. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 


[^03] 


September  25th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Behold  me — a  Sophomore!  I  came  up  last  Friday, 
sorry  to  leave  Lock  Willow,  but  glad  to  see  the 
campus  again.  It  is  a  pleasant  sensation  to  come  back 
to  something  familiar.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  at  home 
in  college,  and  in  command  of  the  situation;  I  am  be- 
ginning, in  fact,  to  feel  at  home  in  the  world — as 
though  I  really  belonged  in  it  and  had  not  just  crept 
in  on  sufferance. 

I  don't  suppose  you  understand  in  the  least  what  I 
am  trying  to  say.  A  person  important  enough  to  be  a 
Trustee  can't  appreciate  the  feelings  of  a  person  un- 
important enough  to  be  a  foundHng. 

And  now.  Daddy,  listen  to  this.  Whom  do  you 
think  I  am  rooming  with?  Sallie  McBride  and  Juha 
Rutledge  Pendleton.  It's  the  truth.  We  have  a  study 
and  three  Httle  bedrooms — voila! 


[104] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Sallie  and  I  decided  last  spring  that  we  should  like  to 
room  together,  and  Julia  made  up  her  mind  to  stay 
with  Sallie — ^why,  I  can't  imagine,  for  they  are  not  a 
bit  alike;  but  the  Pendletons  are  naturally  conservative 
and  inimical  (fine  word! )  to  change.  Anyway,  here 
we  are.  Think  of  Jerusha  Abbott,  late  of  the  John 
Grier  Home  for  Orphans,  rooming  with  a  Pendleton. 
This  is  a  democratic  country. 

Sallie  is  running  for  class  president,  and  unless  all 
signs  fail,  she  is  going  to  be  elected.  Such  an  atmos- 
phere of  intrigue — ^you  should  see  what  politicians  we 
are!  Oh,  I  tell  you.  Daddy,  when  we  women  get  our 
rights,  you  men  will  have  to  look  alive  in  order  to  keep 
yours.  Election  comes  next  Saturday,  and  we're  going 
to  have  a  torchlight  procession  in  the  evening,  no 
matter  who  wins. 

I  am  beginning  chemistry,  a  most  unusual  study. 
I've  never  seen  anything  like  it  before.  Molecules  and 
Atoms  are  the  material  employed,  but  I'll  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  discuss  them  more  definitely  next  month. 

I  am  also  taking  argumentation  and  logic. 

Also  history  of  the  whole  world. 

Also  plays  of  WilHam  Shakespeare. 

Also  French. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

If  this  keeps  up  many  years  longer,  I  shall  become 
quite  intelligent. 

I  should  rather  have  elected  economics  than  French, 
but  I  didn't  dare,  because  I  was  afraid  that  unless  I  re- 
elected French,  the  professor  would  not  let  me  pass — 
as  it  was,  I  just  managed  to  squeeze  through  the  June 
examination.  But  I  will  say  that  my  high-school  prep- 
aration was  not  very  adequate. 

There's  one  girl  in  the  class  who  chatters  away  in 
French  as  fast  as  she  does  in  English.  She  went  abroad 
with  her  parents  when  she  was  a  child,  and  spent  three 
years  in  a  convent  school.  You  can  imagine  how  bright 
she  is  compared  with  the  rest  of  us — irregular  verbs 
are  mere  playthings.  I  wish  my  parents  had  chucked 
me  into  a  French  convent  when  I  was  little  instead  of 
a  foundling  asylum.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  either!  Because 
then  maybe  I  should  never  have  known  you.  I'd 
rather  know  you  than  French. 

Good-by,  Daddy.  I  must  call  on  Harriet  Martin 
now,  and,  having  discussed  the  chemical  situation, 
casually  drop  a  few  thoughts  on  the  subject  of  our 
next  president. 

Yours  in  politics, 

I.  Abbott. 


[106] 


October  17th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Supposing  the  swimming  tank  in  the  gymnasium 
were  filled  full  of  lemon  jelly,  could  a  person  trying 
to  swim  manage  to  keep  on  top  or  would  he  sink? 

We  were  having  lemon  jelly  for  dessert,  when  the 
question  came  up.  We  discussed  it  heatedly  for  half 
an  hour  and  it's  still  unsettled.  Sallie  thinks  that  she 
could  swim  in  it,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  the  best 
swimmer  in  the  world  would  sink.  Wouldn't  it  be 
funny  to  be  drowned  in  lemon  jelly? 

Two  other  problems  are  engaging  the  attention  of 
our  table. 

I  St.  What  shape  are  the  rooms  in  an  octagon  house? 
Some  of  the  girls  insist  that  they're  square;  but  I  think 
they'd  have  to  be  shaped  like  a  piece  of  pie.  Don't 
you? 

2d.  Suppose  there  were  a  great  big  hollow  sphere 
made  of  looking-glass  and  you  were  sitting  inside. 
Where  would  it  stop  reflecting  your  face  and  begin 

[107] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

reflecting  your  back?  The  more  one  thinks  about 
this  problem,  the  more  puzzling  it  becomes.  You  can 
see  with  what  deep  philosophical  reflection  we  engage 
our  leisure! 

Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  election?  It  happened 
three  weeks  ago,  but  so  fast  do  we  live,  that  three 
weeks  is  ancient  history.  SaUie  was  elected,  and  we 
had  a  torchlight  parade  with  transparencies  saying, 
"McBride  Forever,"  and  a  band  consisting  of  fourteen 
pieces  (three  mouth  organs  and  eleven  combs). 


f 


P  0  ^BVB  R, 


[io8] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

We're  very  important  persons  now  in  "258."  Julia 
and  I  come  in  for  a  great  deal  of  reflected  glory.  It's 
quite  a  social  strain  to  be  living  in  the  same  house  with 
a  president. 
Bonne  nuit,  cher  Daddy. 

Acceptez  mes  cojnpliments, 

Tres  respectueux, 

Je  mis, 
Votre  Judy. 


[lop] 


November  12  th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs^ 

We  beat  the  Freshmen  at  basket  ball  yesterday.  Of 
course  we're  pleased — but  oh,  if  we  could  only  beat 
the  Juniors!  I'd  be  willing  to  be  black  and  blue  all 
over  and  stay  in  bed  a  week  in  a  witch-hazel  compress. 

Sallie  has  invited  me  to  spend  the  Christmas  vacation 
with  her.  She  hves  in  Worcester,  Massachusetts. 
Wasn't  it  nice  of  her?  I  shall  love  to  go.  I've  never 
been  in  a  private  family  in  my  life,  except  at  Lock 
Willow,  and  the  Semples  were  grown-up  and  old  and 
don't  count.  But  the  McBrides  have  a  houseful  of 
children  (anyway  two  or  three)  and  a  mother  and 
father  and  grandmother,  and  an  Angora  cat.  It's  a 
perfectly  complete  family!  Packing  your  trunk  and 
going  away  is  more  fun  than  staying  behind.  I'm 
terribly  excited  at  the  prospect. 

Seventh  hour — I  must  run  to  rehearsal.  I'm  to  be 
/n  the  Thanksgiving  theatricals.  A  prince  in  a  tower 
with  a  velvet  tunic  and  yellow  curls.  Isn't  that  a  lark? 

Yours, 

J.A. 

[no] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Saturday. 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  look  like?    Here's  a 
photograph  of  all  three  that  Leonora  Fenton  took. 

The  light  one  who  is  laughing  is  Sallie,  and  the  tall 
one  with  her  nose  in  the  air  is  Julia,  and  the  little  one 
with  the  hair  blowing  across  her  face  is  Judy — she  is 
really  more  beautiful  than  that,  but  the  sun  was  in  her 
eyes. 


U^^] 


"Stone  Gate," 
Worcester,  Mass., 

December  31st. 
Dear  Daddy -Lo?ig-Legs, 

I  meant  to  write  to  you  before  and  thank  you  for 
your  Christmas  check,  but  life  in  the  McBride  house- 
hold is  very  absorbing,  and  I  don't  seem  able  to  find 
two  consecutive  minutes  to  spend  at  a  desk. 

I  bought  a  new  gown — one  that  I  didn't  need,  but 
just  wanted.  My  Christmas  present  this  year  is  from 
Daddy-Long-Legs;  my  family  just  sent  love. 

I've  been  having  the  most  beautiful  vacation  visit- 
ing Sallie.  She  lives  in  a  big  old-fashioned  brick  house 
with  white  trimmings  set  back  from  the  street — 
exactly  the  kind  of  house  that  I  used  to  look  at  so 
curiously  when  I  was  in  the  John  Grier  Home,  and 
wonder  what  it  could  be  like  inside.  I  never  expected 
to  see  with  my  own  eyes — but  here  I  am!  Everything 
is  so  comfortable  and  restful  and  homelike;  I  walk 
from  room  to  rpom  and  drink  in  the  furnishings. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

It  is  the  most  perfect  house  for  children  to  be 
brought  up  in;  with  shadowy  nooks  for  hide  and  seek, 
and  open  fireplaces  for  pop-corn,  and  an  attic  to  romp 
in  on  rainy  days,  and  slippery  banisters  with  a  com- 
fortable flat  knob  at  the  bottom,  and  a  great  big  sunny 
kitchen,  and  a  nice,  fat,  sunny  cook  who  has  lived  in 
the  family  thirteen  years  and  always  saves  out  a  piece 
of  dough  for  the  children  to  bake.  Just  the  sight  of 
such  a  house  makes  you  want  to  be  a  child  all  over 
again. 

And  as  for  families!  I  never  dreamed  they  could  be 
so  nice.  Sallie  has  a  father  and  mother  and  grand- 
mother, and  the  sweetest  three-year-old  baby  sister  all 
over  curls,  and  a  medium-sized  brother  who  always 
forgets  to  wipe  his  feet,  and  a  big,  good-looking 
brother  named  Jimmie,  who  is  a  Junior  at  Princeton. 

We  have  the  j oiliest  times  at  the  table — everybody 
laughs  and  jokes  and  talks  at  once,  and  we  don't  have 
to  say  grace  beforehand.  It's  a  relief  not  having  to 
thank  Somebody  for  every  mouthful  you  eat.  (I  dare 
say  I'm  blasphemous;  but  you'd  be,  too,  if  you'd  of- 
fered as  much  obligatory  thanks  as  I  have.) 

Such  a  lot  of  things  we've  done — I  can't  begin  to 
tell  you  about  them.  Mr.  McBride  owns  a  factory, 
and  Christmas  eve  he  had  a  tree  for  the  employees' 
children.  It  was  in  the  long  packing-room  which  was 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

decorated  with  evergreens  and  holly.  Jimmie  McBride 
was  dressed  as  Santa  Glaus,  and  Sallie  and  I  helped  him 
distribute  the  presents. 

Dear  me,  Daddy,  but  it  was  a  funny  sensation!  I 
felt  as  benevolent  as  a  Trustee  of  the  John  Grier 
Home.  I  kissed  one  sweet,  sticky  little  boy — but  I 
don't  think  I  patted  any  of  them  on  the  head! 

And  two  days  after  Christmas,  they  gave  a  dance 
at  their  own  house  for  ME. 

It  was  the  first  really  true  ball  I  ever  attended — 
college  doesn't  count  where  we  dance  with  girls.  I 
had  a  new  white  evening  gown  (your  Christmas 
present — ^many  thanks)  and  long  white  gloves  and 
white  satin  slippers.  The  only  drawback  to  my  per- 
fect, utter,  absolute  happiness  was  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Lippett  couldn't  see  me  leading  the  cotillion  with 
Jimmie  McBride.  Tell  her  about  it,  please,  the  next 
time  you  visit  the  J.  G.  H. 

Yours  ever, 
Judy  Abbott. 

P.S.  Would  you  be  terribly  displeased,  Daddy,  if 
I  didn't  turn  out  to  be  a  Great  Author  after  all,  but 
just  a  Plain  Girl? 


[114 


6.30,  Saturday. 
Dear  Daddy  ^ 

We  started  to  walk  to  town  to-day,  but  mercy! 
how  it  poured.  I  like  winter  to  be  winter  with  snow 
instead  of  rain. 

Julia's  desirable  uncle  called  again  this  afternoon — 
and  brought  a  five-pound  box  of  chocolates.  There 
are  advantages  you  see  about  rooming  with  Julia. 

Our  innocent  prattle  appeared  to  amuse  him  and 
he  waited  over  a  train  in  order  to  take  tea  in  the 
study.  And  an  awful  lot  of  trouble  we  had  getting 
permission.  It's  hard  enough  entertaining  fathers  and 
grandfathers,  but  uncles  are  a  step  worse;  and  as  for 
brothers  and  cousins,  they  are  next  to  impossible, 
Julia  had  to  swear  that  he  was  her  uncle  before  a 
notary  pubHc  and  then  have  the  county  clerk's  certifi- 
cate attached.  (Don't  I  know  a  lot  of  law?)  And 
even  then  I  doubt  if  we  could  have  had  our  tea  if  the 
Dean  had  chanced  to  see  how  youngish  and  good- 
looking  Uncle  Jervis  is. 

Anyway,  we  had  it,  with  brown  bread  Swiss  cheese 
sandwiches.  He  helped  make  them  and  then  ate  four. 
I  told  him  that  I  had  spent  last  summer  at  Lock  Wil- 

["5] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

low,  and  we  had  a  beautiful  gossipy  time  about  the 
Semples  and  the  horses  and  cows  and  chickens.  Ail 
the  horses  that  he  used  to  know  are  dead,  except 
Grover,  who  was  a  baby  colt  at  the  time  of  his  last  visit 
— and  poor  Grove  now  is  so  old  he  can  just  limp  about 
the  pasture. 

He  asked  if  they  still  kept  doughnuts  in  a  yellow 
crock  with  a  blue  plate  over  it  on  the  bottom  shelf 
of  the  pantry — ^and  they  do!  He  wanted  to  know  if 
there  was  still  a  woodchuck's  hole  under  the  pile  of 
rocks  in  the  night  pasture — and  there  is!  Amasai 
caught  a  big,  fat,  gray  one  there  this  summer,  the 
twenty-fifth  great-grandson  of  the  one  Master  Jervie 
caught  when  he  was  a  little  boy. 

I  called  him  "Master  Jer\ae"  to  his  face,  but  he 
didn't  appear  to  be  insulted.  Julia  says  that  she  has 
never  seen  him  so  amiable:  he's  usually  pretty  un- 
approachable. But  Juha  hasn't  a  bit  of  tact;  and  men, 
I  find,  require  a  great  deal.  They  purr  if  you  rub 
them  the  right  way  and  spit  if  you  don't.  (That  isn't 
a  very  elegant  metaphor.  I  mean  it  figuratively.) 

We're  reading  Marie  Bashkirtseff's  journal.  Isn't 
it  amazing?  Listen  to  this:  "Last  night  I  was  seized 
by  a  fit  of  despair  that  found  utterance  in  moans,  and 
that  finally  drove  me  to  throw  the  dining-room  clock 
into  the  sea." 

\ir6] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

It  makes  me  almost  hope  Fm  not  a  genius;  they  must 
be  very  wearing  to  have  about — ^and  awfully  destruc- 
tive to  the  furniture. 

Mercy!  how  it  keeps  pouring.  We  shall  have  to 
swim  to  chapel  to-night. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 


i^n] 


Jan.  20th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Did  you  ever  have  a  sweet  baby  girl  who  was  stolen 
from  the  cradle  in  infancy? 

Maybe  I  am  she!  If  we  were  in  a  novel,  that  would 
be  the  denouement,  wouldn't  it? 

It's  really  awfully  queer  not  to  know  what  one  is — 
sort  of  exciting  and  romantic.  There  are  such  a  lot 
of  possibilities.  Maybe  I'm  not  American;  lots  of  peo- 
ple aren't.  I  may  be  straight  descended  from  the  an- 
cient Romans,  or  I  may  be  a  Viking's  daughter,  or  I 
may  be  the  child  of  a  Russian  exile  and  belong  by 
rights  in  a  Siberian  prison,  or  maybe  I'm  a  Gipsy — ^I 
think  perhaps  I  am.  I  have  a  very  iv  under  in  g  spirit, 
though  I  haven't  as  yet  had  much  chance  to  develop 
it. 

Do  you  know  about  that  one  scandalous  blot  in  my 
career — the  time  I  ran  away  from  the  asylum  because 
they  punished  me  for  stealing  cookies?  It's  down  in 
the  books  free  for  any  Trustee  to  read.   But  really, 

[ii8] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Daddy,  what  could  you  expect?  When  you  put  a 
hungry  little  nine-year  girl  in  the  pantry  scouring 
knives,  with  the  cookie  jar  at  her  elbow,  and  go  off 
and  leave  her  alone;  and  then  suddenly  pop  in  again, 
wouldn't  you  expect  to  find  her  a  bit  crumby?  And 
then  when  you  jerk  her  by  the  elbow  and  box  her 
ears,  and  make  her  leave  the  table  when  the  pudding 
comes,  and  tell  all  the  other  children  that  it's  because 
she's  a  thief,  wouldn't  you  expect  her  to  run  away? 

I  only  ran  four  miles.  They  caught  me  and  brought 
me  back;  and  every  day  for  a  week  I  was  tied,  like  a 
naughty  puppy,  to  a  stake  in  the  back  yard  while  the 
other  children  were  out  at  recess. 

Oh,  dear!  There's  the  chapel  bell,  and  after  chapel 
I  have  a  committee  meeting.  I'm  sorry  because  I 
meant  to  write  you  a  very  entertaining  letter  this 
time. 

Au]  'wiedersehen 
Cher  Daddy 
Vax  tihi! 
Judy. 

P.S.  There's  one  thing  I'm  perfectly  sure  of.  Fm 
not  a  Chinaman. 


["?] 


February  4th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Jimmie  McBride  has  sent  me  a  Princeton  banner  as 
big  as  one  end  of  the  room;  I  am  very  grateful  to  him 
for  remembering  me,  but  I  don't  know  what  on  earth 
to  do  with  it.  Salhe  and  JuHa  won't  let  me  hang  it 
up;  our  room  this  year  is  furnished  in  red,  and  you 
can  imagine  what  an  effect  we'd  have  if  I  added 
orange  and  black.  But  it's  such  a  nice,  warm,  thick 
felt,  I  hate  to  waste  it.  Would  it  be  very  improper 
to  have  it  made  into  a  bath  robe?  My  old  one  shrank 
when  it  was  washed. 

I've  entirely  omitted  of  late  telling  you  what  I  am 
learning,  but  though  you  might  not  imagine  it  from 
my  letters,  my  time  is  exclusively  occupied  with 
study.  It's  a  very  bewildering  matter  to  get  educated 
in  five  branches  at  once. 

"The  test  of  true  scholarship,"  says  Chemistry  Pro- 
fessor, "is  a  painstaking  passion  for  detail." 

[120] 


It's  the  e^ri^f  biVd 
thM   c^icbccthetbo 


"Be  careful  not  to  keep  your  eyes  glued  to  detail," 
says  History  Professor.  "Stand  far  enough  away  to 
get  a  perspective  on  the  whole." 

You  can  see  with  what  nicety  we  have  to  trim  our 
sails  between  chemistry  and  history.  I  like  the  his- 
torical method  best.  If  I  say  that  William  the  Con- 
queror came  over  in  1492,  and  Columbus  discovered 
America  in  iioo  or  1066  or  whenever  it  was,  that's 
a  mere  detail  that  the  Professor  overlooks.  It  gives 
a  feeling  of  security  and  restfulness  to  the  history 
recitation,  that  is  entirely  lacking  in  chemistry. 

Sixth-hour  bell — I  must  go  to  the  laboratory  and 
look  into  a  little  matter  of  acids  and  salts  and  alkalis. 
I've  burned  a  hole  as  big  as  a  plate  in  the  front  of  my 
chemistry   apron,    with    hydrochloric   acid.     If   the 

[121] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

theory  worked,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  neutralize  that 
hole  with  good  strong  ammonia,  oughtn't  L^ 
Examinations  next  week,  but  who's  afraid? 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 


[122] 


March  5th. 
Dear  Daddy -Lojtg-Legs, 

There  is  a  March  wind  blowing,  and  the  sky  is  filled 
with  heavy,  black,  moving  clouds.  The  crows  in  the 
pine  trees  are  making  such  a  clamor!  It's  an  intoxicat- 
ing, exhilarating,  calling  noise.  You  want  to  close 
your  books  and  be  off  over  the  hills  to  race  with  the 
wind. 

We  had  a  paper  chase  last  Saturday  over  five  miles 
of  squashy  'cross  country.  The  fox  (composed  of 
three  girls  and  a  bushel  or  so  of  confetti)  started  half 
an  hour  before  the  twenty-seven  hunters.  I  was  one 
of  the  twenty-seven;  eight  dropped  by  the  wayside; 
we  ended  nineteen.  The  trail  led  over  a  hill,  through 
a  cornfield,  and  into  a  swamp  where  we  had  to  leap 
lightly  from  hummock  to  hummock.  Of  course  half 
of  us  went  in  ankle  deep.  We  kept  losing  the  trail, 
and  wasted  twenty-five  minutes  over  that  swamp. 
Then  up  a  hill  through  some  woods  and  in  at  a  bam 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

window!  The  bam  doors  were  all  locked  and  the 
window  was  up  high  and  pretty  small.  I  don't  call 
that  fair,  do  you? 

But  we  didn't  go  through;  we  circumnavigated  the 
bam  and  picked  up  the  trail  where  it  issued  by  way  of 
a  low  shed  roof  onto  the  top  of  a  fence.  The  fox 
thought  he  had  us  there,  but  we  fooled  him.  Then 
straight  away  over  two  miles  of  rolling  meadow,  and 
awfully  hard  to  follow,  for  the  confetti  was  getting 
sparse.  The  rule  is  that  it  must  be  at  the  most  six 
feet  apart,  but  they  were  the  longest  six  feet  I  ever 
saw.  Finally,  after  two  hours  of  steady  trotting,  we 
tracked  Monsieur  Fox  into  the  kitchen  of  Crystal 
Spring  (that's  a  farm  where  the  girls  go  in  bob  sleighs 
and  hay  wagons  for  chicken  and  waffle  suppers)  and 
we  found  the  three  foxes  placidly  eating  milk  and 
honey  and  biscuits.  They  hadn't  thought  we  would 
get  that  far;  they  were  expecting  us  to  stick  in  the 
barn  window. 

Both  sides  insist  that  they  won.  I  think  we  did, 
don't  you?  Because  we  caught  them  before  they  got 
back  to  the  campus.  Anyway,  all  nineteen  of  us  set- 
tled like  locusts  over  the  furniture  and  clamored  for 
honey.  There  wasn't  enough  to  go  round,  but  Mrs. 
Crystal  Spring  (that's  our  pet  name  for  her;  she's  by 
rights  a  Johnson)  brought  up  a  jar  of  strawberry  jam 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  a  can  of  maple  syrup — just  made  last  week — ^and 
three  loaves  of  brown  bread. 

We  didn't  get  back  to  college  till  half-past  six — half 
an  hour  late  for  dinner — and  we  went  straight  in  with- 
out dressing,  and  with  perfectly  unimpaired  appetites! 
Then  we  all  cut  evening  chapel,  the  state  of  our  boots 
being  enough  of  an  excuse. 

I  never  told  you  about  examinations.  I  passed 
everything  with  the  utmost  ease — I  know  the  secret 
now,  and  am  never  going  to  flunk  again.  I  shan't  be 
able  to  graduate  with  honors  though,  because  of  that 
beastly  Latin  prose  and  geometry  Freshman  year. 
But  I  don't  care.  Wot's  the  hodds  so  long  as  you're 
'appy?  (That's  a  quotation.  I've  been  reading  the 
English  classics.) 

Speaking  of  classics,  have  you  ever  read  "Hamlet"? 
If  you  haven't,  do  it  right  off.  It's  perfectly  corking, 
I've  been  hearing  about  Shakespeare  all  my  life,  but 
I  had  no  idea  he  really  wrote  so  well;  I  always  sus- 
pected him  of  going  largely  on  his  reputation. 

I  have  a  beautiful  play  that  I  invented  a  long  time 
ago  when  I  first  learned  to  read.  I  put  myself  to  sleep 
every  night  by  pretending  I'm  the  person  (the  most 
important  person)  in  the  book  I'm  reading  at  the  mo- 
ment. 

At    present    I'm    Ophelia — and    such    a    sensible 

U^5] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Ophelia!  I  keep  Hamlet  amused  all  the  time,  and  pet 
him  and  scold  him  and  make  him  wrap  up  his  throat 
when  he  has  a  cold.  I've  entirely  cured  him  of  being 
melancholy.  The  King  and  Queen  are  both  dead — an 
accident  at  sea;  no  funeral  necessary — so  Hamlet  and 
I  are  ruling  in  Denmark  without  any  bother.  We  have 
the  kingdom  working  beautifully.  He  takes  care  of 
the  governing,  and  I  look  after  the  charities.  I  have 
just  founded  some  first-class  orphan  asylums.  If  you 
or  any  of  the  other  Trustees  would  Hke  to  visit  them, 
I  shall  be  pleased  to  show  you  through.  I  think  you 
might  find  a  great  many  helpful  suggestions. 

I  remain,  sir, 
Yours  most  graciously, 

Ophelia, 
Queen  of  Denmark. 


[126] 


March  24th. 
maybe  the  25th. 

Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  don't  believe  I  can  be  going  to  Heaven — I  am 
getting  such  a  lot  of  good  things  here;  it  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  get  them  hereafter,  too.  Listen  to  what  has 
happened. 

Jerusha  Abbott  has  won  the  short-story  contest 
(a  twenty-five  dollar  prize)  that  the  Monthly  holds 
every  year.  And  she  a  Sophomore!  The  contestants 
are  mostly  Seniors.  When  I  saw  my  name  posted,  I 
couldn't  quite  believe  it  was  true.  Maybe  I  am  going 
tjo  be  an  author  after  all.  I  wish  Mrs.  Lippett  hadn't 
given  me  such  a  silly  name — ^it  sounds  like  an  author- 
ess's, doesn't  it? 

Also  I  have  been  chosen  for  the  spring  dramatics — 
"As  You  Like  It"  out  of  doors.  I  am  going  to  be  CeHa, 
own  cousin  to  Rosalind. 

And  lastly:  JuKa  and  Sallie  and  I  are  going  to  New 
York  next  Friday  to  do  some  spring  shopping  and  stay 

[j27l 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

all  night  and  go  to  the  theater  the  next  day  with  "Mas- 
ter Jervie."  He  invited  us.  Julia  is  going  to  stay  at 
home  with  her  family,  but  Sallie  and  I  are  going  to 
stop  at  the  Martha  Washington  Hotel.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  so  exciting?  Fve  never  been  in  a 
hotel  in  my  life,  nor  in  a  theater;  except  once  when 
the  Catholic  Church  had  a  festival  and  invited  the 
orphans,  but  that  wasn't  a  real  play  and  it  doesn't 
count. 

And  what  do  you  think  we're  going  to  see?  "Ham- 
let." Think  of  that!  We  studied  it  for  four  weeks 
in  Shakespeare  class  and  I  know  it  by  heart. 

I  am  so  excited  over  all  these  prospects  that  I  can 
scarcely  sleep. 

Good-by,  Daddy. 

This  is  a  very  entertaining  world. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.S.  I've  just  looked  at  the  calendar.  It's  the  28th. 

Another  postscript. 

I  saw  a  street  car  conductor  to-day  with  one  brown 
eye  and  one  blue.  Wouldn't  he  make  a  nice  villain 
for  a  detective  story? 

[128] 


April  7th. 

Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Mercy!  Isn't  New  York  big?  Worcester  is  nothing 
to  it.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  actually  live 
in  all  that  confusion?  I  don't  believe  that  I  shall  re- 
cover for  months  from  the  bewildering  effect  of  two 
days  of  it.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  all  the  amazing 
things  I've  seen;  I  suppose  you  know,  though,  since 
you  live  there  yourself. 

But  aren't  the  streets  entertaining?  And  the  people? 
And  the  shops?  I  never  saw  such  lovely  things  as  there 
are  in  the  windows.  It  makes  you  want  to  devote  your 
life  to  wearing  clothes. 

Sallie  and  Julia  and  I  went  shopping  together  Satur- 
day morning.  Julia  went  into  the  very  most  gorgeous 
place  I  ever  saw,  white  and  gold  walls  and  blue  carpets 
and  blue  silk  curtains  and  gilt  chairs.  A  perfectly 
beautiful  lady  with  yellow  hair  and  a  long  black  silk 
trailing  gown  came  to  meet  us  with  a  welcoming  smile, 
I  thought  we  were  paying  a  social  call,  and  started  v^ 

[I2C^] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

shake  hands,  but  it  seems  we  were  only  buying  hats — 
at  least  Julia  was.  She  sat  down  in  front  of  a  mirror 
and  tried  on  a  dozen,  each  lovelier  than  the  last,  and 
bought  the  two  loveliest  of  all. 

I  can't  imagine  any  joy  in  life  greater  than  sitting 
down  in  front  of  a  mirror  and  buying  any  hat  you 
choose  without  having  first  to  consider  the  price! 
There's  no  doubt  about  it,  Daddy;  New  York  would 
rapidly  undermine  this  fine,  stoical  character  which 
the  John  Grier  Home  so  patiently  built  up. 

And  after  we'd  finished  our  shopping,  we  met  Mas- 
ter Jervie  at  Sherry's.  I  suppose  you've  been  in  Sher- 
ry's? Picture  that,  then  picture  the  dining-room  of 
the  John  Grier  Home  with  its  oilcloth-covered  tables, 
and  white  crockery  that  you  ca7t^t  break,  and  wooden- 
handled  knives  and  forks;  and  fancy  the  way  I  felt! 

I  ate  my  fish  with  the  wrong  fork,  but  the  waiter 
very  kindly  gave  me  another  so  that  nobody  noticed. 

And  after  luncheon  we  went  to  the  theater — it  was 
dazzHng,  marvelous,  unbelievable — I  dream  about  it 
every  night. 

Isn't  Shakespeare  wonderful? 

"Hamlet"  is  so  much  better  on  the  stage  than  when 
we  analyze  it  in  class;  I  appreciated  it  before,  but  now, 
dear  me! 

I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  that  I'd  rather  be  an 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

actress  than  a  writer.  Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  leave 
college  and  go  into  a  dramatic  school?  And  then  FU 
send  you  a  box  for  all  my  performances,  and  smile 
at  you  across  the  footlights.  Only  wear  a  red  rose  in 
your  buttonhole,  please,  so  I'll  surely  smile  at  the  right 
man.  It  would  be  an  awfully  embarrassing  mistake 
if  I  picked  out  the  wrong  one. 

We  came  back  Saturday  night  and  had  our  dinner 
in  the  train,  at  little  tables  with  pink  lamps  and  negro 
waiters.  I  never  heard  of  meals  being  served  in  trains 
before,  and  I  inadvertently  said  so. 

"Where  on  earth  were  you  brought  up?"  said  Julia 
to  me. 

"In  a  village,"  said  I,  meekly  to  Julia. 

"But  didn't  you  ever  travel?"  said  she  to  me. 

"Not  till  I  came  to  college,  and  then  it  was  only  a 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  and  we  didn't  eat,"  said  I 
to  her. 

She's  getting  quite  interested  in  me,  because  I  say 
such  funny  things.  I  try  hard  not  to,  but  they  do  pop 
out  when  I'm  surprised — and  I'm  surprised  most  of 
the  time.  It's  a  dizzying  experience,  Daddy,  to  pass 
eighteen  years  in  the  John  Grier  Home,  and  then  sud- 
denly to  be  plunged  into  the  WORLD. 

But  I'm  getting  acclimated.  I  don't  make  such  aw- 
ful mistakes  as  I  did;  and  I  don't  feel  uncomfortable 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

any  more  with  the  other  girls.  I  used  to  squirm  when- 
ever people  looked  at  me.  I  felt  as  though  they  saw 
right  through  my  sham  new  clothes  to  the  checked 
ginghams  underneath.  But  I'm  not  letting  the  ging- 
hams bother  me  any  more.  Sufficient  unto  yesterday 
is  the  evil  thereof. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  our  flowers.  Master  Jervie 
gave  us  each  a  big  bunch  of  violets  and  lilies-of-the- 
valley.  Wasn't  that  sweet  of  him?  I  never  used  to 
care  much  for  men — judging  by  Trustees — ^but  I'm 
changing  my  mind. 

Eleven  pages — ^this  is  a  letter!  Have  courage.  Vm 
going  to  stop. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 


[^5-] 


April  10th. 
Dear  Mr.  Rich-Man, 

Here's  your  check  for  fifty  dollars.  Thank  you 
very  much,  but  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  keep  it.  My 
allowance  is  sufficient  to  afford  all  of  the  hats  that  I 
need.  I  am  sorry  that  I  wrote  all  that  silly  stuff  about 
the  millinery  shop;  it's  just  that  I  had  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it  before. 

However,  I  wasn't  begging!  And  I  would  rather 
not  accept  any  more  charity  than  I  have  to. 

Sincerely  yours, 
Jerusha  Abbott, 


[^33] 


April  11th. 

Dearest  Daddy y 

Will  you  please  forgive  me  for  the  letter  I  wrote 
you  yesterday?  After  I  posted  it  I  was  sorry,  and 
tried  to  get  it  back,  but  that  beastly  mail  clerk 
wouldn't  give  it  to  me. 

It's  the  middle  of  the  night  now;  Fve  been  awake 
for  hours  thinking  what  a  Worm  I  am — ^what  a  Thou- 
sand-legged Worm — and  that's  the  worst  I  can  say! 
I've  closed  the  door  very  softly  into  the  study  so  as 
not  to  wake  Julia  and  Sallie,  and  am  sitting  up  in  bed 
writing  to  you  on  paper  torn  out  of  my  history  note- 
book. 

I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  I  was  SO 
impolite  about  your  check.  I  know  you  meant  it 
kindly,  and  I  think  you're  an  old  dear  to  take  so  much 
trouble  for  such  a  silly  thing  as  a  hat.  I  ought  to 
have  returned  it  very  much  more  graciously. 

But  in  any  case,  I  had  to  return  it.  It's  diiferent 
with  me  than  with  other  girls.  They  can  take  things 
naturally  from  people.  They  have  fathers  and  broth- 
ers and  aunts  and  uncles;  but  I  can't  be  on  any  such 
relations  with  any  one.  I  like  to  pretend  that  you 
belong  to  me,  just  to  play  with  the  idea,  but  of  course 
I  know  you  don't.   I'm  alone,  really — ^with  my  back 

[^34] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

to  the  wall  fighting  the  world — and  I  get  sort  of  gaspy 
when  I  think  about  it.  I  put  it  out  of  my  mind,  and 
keep  on  pretending;  but  don't  you  see,  Daddy?  I 
can't  accept  any  more  money  than  I  have  to,  because 
some  day  I  shall  be  wanting  to  pay  it  back,  and  even 
as  great  an  author  as  I  intend  to  be,  won't  be  able 
to  face  a  perfectly  tremendous  debt. 

I'd  love  pretty  hats  and  things,  but  I  mustn't  mort- 
gage the  future  to  pay  for  them. 

You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you,  for  being  so  rude? 
I  have  an  awful  habit  of  writing  impulsively  when  I 
first  think  things,  and  then  posting  the  letter  beyond 
recall.  But  if  I  sometimes  seem  thoughtless  and  un- 
grateful, I  never  mean  it.  In  my  heart  I  thank  you 
always  for  the  life  and  freedom  and  independence 
that  you  have  given  me.  My  childhood  was  just  a 
long,  sullen  stretch  of  revolt,  and  now  I  am  so  happy 
every  moment  of  the  day  that  I  can't  believe  it's  true. 
I  feel  like  a  made-up  heroine  in  a  story-book. 

It's  a  quarter  past  two.  I'm  going  to  tiptoe  out  to 
the  mail  chute  and  get  this  off  now.  You'll  receive 
it  in  the  next  mail  after  the  other,  so  you  won't  have  a 
very  long  time  to  think  bad  of  me. 

Good  night,  Daddy, 
I  love  you  always, 
Judy. 

U35] 


May  4th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Field  Day  last  Saturday.  It  was  a  very  spectacular 
occasion.  First  we  had  a  parade  of  all  the  classes,  with 
everybody  dressed  in  white  linen,  the  Seniors  carry- 
ing blue  and  gold  Japanese  umbrellas,  and  the  Juniors 
white  and  yellow  banners.  Our  class  had  crimson 
balloons — very  fetching,  especially  as  they  were  al- 
ways getting  loose  and  floating  off — and  the  Freshmen 
wore  green  tissue-paper  hats  with  long  streamers. 
Also  we  had  a  band  in  blue  uniforms  hired  from  town. 
Also  about  a  dozen  funny  people,  like  clowns  in  a 
circus,  to  keep  the  spectators  entertained  between 
events. 

Julia  was  dressed  as  a  fat  country  man  with  a  linen 
duster  and  whiskers  and  baggy  umbrella.  Patsy  Mori- 
arty  (Patricia,  really.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  name? 
Mrs.  Lippett  couldn't  have  done  better.)  who  is  tall 
and  thin  was  JuKa's  wife  in  an  absurd  green  bonnet 

U36] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

over  one  ear.  Waves  of  laughter  followed  them  the 
whole  length  of  the  course.  Julia  played  the  part  ex- 
tremely well.  I  never  dreamed  that  a  Pendleton  could 
display  so  much  comedy  spirit — begging  Master  Jer- 
vie's  pardon;  I  don't  consider  him  a  true  Pendleton 
though,  any  more  than  I  consider  you  a  true  Trustee. 

Sallie  and  I  weren't  in  the  parade  because  we  were 
entered  for  the  events.  And  what  do  you  think?  We 
both  won!  At  least  in  something.  We  tried  for  the 
running  broad  jump  and  lost;  but  SalHe  won  the  pole- 
vaulting  (seven  feet  tliree  inches)  and  I  won  the  fifty- 
yard  dash  (eight  seconds). 

I  was  pretty  panting  at  the  end,  but  it  was  great  fun, 
with  the  whole  class  waving  balloons  and  cheering 
and  yelHng: 

What's  the  matter  with  Judy  Abbott? 
She's  all  right. 
Who's  all  right? 
Judy  Ab-bott! 

That,  Daddy,  is  true  fame.  Then  trotting  back  to 
the  dressing  tent  and  being  rubbed  down  with  alcohol 
and  having  a  lemon  to  suck.  You  see  we're  very  pro- 
fessional. It's  a  fine  thing  to  win  an  event  for  your 
class,  because  the  class  that  wins  the  most  gets  the 


athletic  cup  for  the  year.  The  Seniors  won  it  this 
year,  with  seven  events  to  their  credit.  The  athletic 
association  gave  a  dinner  in  the  gymnasium  to  all  of 
the  winners.  We  had  fried  soft-shell  crabs,  and  choco- 
late ice-cream  molded  in  the  shape  of  basket  balls. 

I  sat  up  half  of  last  night  reading  ''J^me  Eyre."  Are 
you  old  enough,  Daddy,  to  remember  sixty  years  ago? 
And  if  so,  did  people  talk  that  way? 

The  haughty  Lady  Blanche  says  to  the  footman, 
"Stop  your  chattering,  knave,  and  do  my  bidding." 
Mr.  Rochester  talks  about  the  metal  welkin  when  he 
means  the  sky;  and  as  for  the  mad  woman  who  laughs 
like  a  hyena  and  sets  fire  to  bed  curtains  and  tears  up 
wedding  veils  and  bites — it's  melodrama  of  the  purest, 
but  just  the  same,  you  read  and  read  and  read.  I  can't 
see  how  any  girl  could  have  written  such  a  book, 
especially  any  girl  who  was  brought  up  in  a  church- 

[^38] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

yard.  There's  something  about  those  Brontes  that 
fascinates  me.  Their  books,  their  lives,  their  spirit. 
Where  did  they  get  it?  When  I  was  reading  about 
little  Jane's  troubles  in  the  charity  school,  I  got  so 
angry  that  I  had  to  go  out  and  take  a  walk.  I  under- 
stood exactly  how  she  felt.  Having  known  Mrs.  Lip- 
pett,  I  could  see  Mr.  Brocklehurst. 

Don't  be  outraged,  Daddy.  I  am  not  intimating 
that  the  John  Grier  Home  was  like  the  Lowood  In- 
stitute. We  had  plenty  to  eat  and  plenty  to  wear, 
sufficient  water  to  wash  in,  and  a  furnace  in  the  cellar. 
But  there  was  one  deadly  likeness.  Our  lives  were  ab- 
solutely monotonous  and  uneventful.  Nothing  nice 
ever  happened,  except  ice-cream  on  Sundays,  and  even 
that  was  regular.  In  all  the  eighteen  years  I  was  there 
I  only  had  one  adventure — ^when  the  woodshed 
burned.  We  had  to  get  up  in  the  night  and  dress  so  as 
to  be  ready  in  case  the  house  should  catch.  But  it 
didn't  catch  and  we  went  back  to  bed. 

Everybody  likes  a  few  surprises;  it's  a  perfectly 
natural  human  craving.  But  I  never  had  one  until 
Mrs.  Lippett  called  me  to  the  office  to  tell  me  that 
Mr.  John  Smith  was  going  to  send  me  to  college. 
And  then  she  broke  the  news  so  gradually  that  it  just 
barely  shocked  me. 

You  know,  Daddy,  I  think  that  the  most  necessary 

[139] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

quality  for  any  person  to  have  is  imagination.  It  makes 
people  able  to  put  themselves  in  other  people's  places. 
It  makes  them  kind  and  sympathetic  and  understand- 
ing. It  ought  to  be  cultivated  in  children.  But  the 
John  Grier  Home  instantly  stamped  out  the  slightest 
flicker  that  appeared.  Duty  was  the  one  quality  that 
was  encouraged.  I  don't  think  children  ought  to 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word;  it's  odious,  detestable. 
They  ought  to  do  everything  from  love. 

Wait  until  you  see  the  orphan  asylum  that  I'm  going 
to  be  the  head  of!  It's  my  favorite  play  at  night  before 
I  go  to  sleep.  I  plan  it  out  to  the  littlest  detail — ^the 
meals  and  clothes  and  study  and  amusements  and 
punishments;  for  even  my  superior  orphans  are  some- 
times bad. 

But  anyway,  they  are  going  to  be  happy.  I  think 
that  every  one,  no  matter  how  many  troubles  he  may 
have  when  he  grows  up,  ought  to  have  a  happy  child- 
hood to  look  back  upon.  And  if  I  ever  have  any  chil- 
dren of  my  own,  no  matter  how  unhappy  I  may  be, 
I  am  not  going  to  let  them  have  any  cares  until  they 
grow  up. 

(There  goes  the  chapel  bell — I'll  finish  this  letter 
sometime.) 


[140 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Thursday. 

When  I  came  in  from  Laboratory  this  afternoon, 
I  found  a  squirrel  sitting  on  the  tea  table  helping  him- 
self to  almonds.  These  are  the  kind  of  callers  we 
entertain  now  that  warm  weather  has  come  and  the 
window  stays  open — 


wiil  you  have  one  lump  or  two?" 


[^4^] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Saturday  morning. 

Perhaps  you  think,  last  night  being  Friday,  with 
no  classes  to-day,  that  I  passed  a  nice,  quiet,  readable 
evening  with  the  set  of  Stevenson  that  I  bought  with 
my  prize  money?  But  if  so,  youVe  never  attended 
a  girls'  college.  Daddy  dear.  Six  friends  dropped  in 
to  make  fudge,  and  one  of  them  dropped  the  fudge — 
while  it  was  still  liquid — right  in  the  middle  of  our 
best  rug.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  clean  up  the  mess. 

I  haven't  mentioned  any  lessons  of  late;  but  we  are 
still  having  them  every  day.  It's  sort  of  a  relief 
though,  to  get  away  from  them  and  discuss  life  in  the 
large — ^rather  one-sided  discussions  that  you  and  I 
hold,  but  that's  your  own  fault.  You  are  welcome  to 
answer  back  any  time  you  choose. 

I've  been  writing  this  letter  off  and  on  for  three 
days,  and  I  fear  by  now  vous  etes  hien  bored! 
Good-by,  nice  Mr.  Man, 

Judy. 


IhA 


Mr.  Daddy -Long-Legs  S?nith. 

Sir:  Having  completed  the  study  of  argumentation 
and  the  science  of  dividing  a  thesis  into  heads,  I  have 
decided  to  adopt  the  following  form  for  letter-writ- 
ing. It  contains  all  necessary  facts,  but  no  unnecessary 
verbiage. 

I.  We  had  written  examinations  this  week  in: 

A.  Chemistry. 

B.  History. 

11.  A  new  dormitory  is  being  built. 

A.  Its  material  is: 

(a)  red  brick. 

(b)  gray  stone. 

B.  Its  capacity  will  be: 

(a)  one  dean,  five  instructors. 

(b)  two  hundred  girls. 

(c)  one  housekeeper,  three  cooks,  twenty 
waitresses,  twenty  chambermaids. 

III.  We  had  junket  for  dessert  to-night. 

IV.  I  am  writing  a  special  topic  upon  the  Sources 
of  Shakespeare's  Plays. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

V.  Lou  McMahon  slipped  and  fell  this  afternoon 
at  basket  ball,  and  she: 

A.  Dislocated  her  shoulder. 

B.  Bruised  her  knee. 

VL  I  have  a  new  hat  trimmed  with: 

A.  Blue  velvet  ribbon. 

B.  Two  blue  quills. 

C.  Three  red  pompons. 
VIL  It  is  half-past  nine. 

VIIL  Good  night. 

Judy. 


[^44] 


June  2d. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

You  will  never  guess  the  nice  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened. 

The  McBrides  have  asked  me  to  spend  the  summer 
at  their  camp  in  the  Adirondacks!  They  belong  to  a 
sort  of  club  on  a  lovely  little  lake  in  the  middle  of  the 
woods.  The  different  members  have  houses  made  of 
logs  dotted  about  among  the  trees,  and  they  go  canoe- 
ing on  the  lake,  and  take  long  walks  through  trails  to 
other  camps,  and  have  dances  once  a  week  in  the  club 
house — ^Jimmie  McBride  is  going  to  have  a  college 
friend  visiting  him  part  of  the  summer,  so  you  see  we 
shall  have  plenty  of  men  to  dance  with. 

Wasn't  it  sweet  of  Mrs.  McBride  to  ask  me?  It 
appears  that  she  liked  me  when  I  was  there  for  Christ- 
mas. 

Please  excuse  this  being  short.  It  isn't  a  real  letter; 
it's  just  to  let  you  know  that  I'm  disposed  of  for  the 
summer. 

Yours, 

In  a  very  contented  frame  of  mind, 

Judy. 


June  5th. 
Dear  Daddy -Lo?2g-Legs, 

Your  secretary  man  has  just  written  to  me  saying 
that  Mr.  Smith  prefers  that  I  should  not  accept  Mrs. 
McBride's  invitation,  but  should  return  to  Lock  Wil- 
low the  same  as  last  summer. 

Why,  why,  ivhy,  Daddy? 

You  don't  understand  about  it.  Mrs.  McBride  does 
want  me,  really  and  truly.  I'm  not  the  least  bit  of 
trouble  in  the  house.  I'm  a  help.  They  don't  take  up 
many  servants,  and  SalHe  and  I  can  do  lots  of  useful 
things.  It's  a  fine  chance  for  me  to  learn  housekeeping. 
Every  woman  ought  to  understand  it,  and  I  only 
know  asylum-keeping. 

There  aren't  any  girls  our  age  at  the  camp,  and 
Mrs.  McBride  wants  me  for  a  companion  for  Sallie. 
We  are  planning  to  do  a  lot  of  reading  together.  We 
are  going  to  read  all  of  the  books  for  next  year's 
Enghsh  and  Sociology.  The  Professor  said  it  would 
be  a  great  help  if  we  would  get  our  reading  finished  in 

[146] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

the  summer;  and  it's  so  much  easier  to  remember  It, 
if  we  read  together  and  talk  it  over. 

Just  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  Sallie's  mother 
is  an  education.  She's  the  most  interesting,  entertain- 
ing, companionable,  charming  woman  in  the  world; 
she  knows  everything.  Think  how  many  summers 
I've  spent  with  Mrs.  Lippett  and  how  I'll  appreciate 
the  contrast.  You  needn't  be  afraid  that  I'll  be  crowd- 
ing them,  for  their  house  is  made  of  rubber.  When 
they  have  a  lot  of  company,  they  just  sprinkle  tents 
about  in  the  woods  and  turn  the  boys  outside.  It's 
going  to  be  such  a  nice,  healthy  summer  exercising 
out  of  doors  every  minute.  Jimmie  McBride  is  going 
to  teach  me  how  to  ride  horseback  and  paddle  a 
canoe,  and  how  to  shoot  and — oh,  lots  of  things  I 
ought  to  know.  It's  the  kind  of  nice,  jolly,  care-free 
time  that  I've  never  had;  and  I  think  every  girl  de- 
serves it  once  in  her  life.  Of  course  I'll  do  exactly  as 
you  say,  but  please,  please  let  me  go,  Daddy.  I've 
never  wanted  anything  so  much. 

This  isn't  Jerusha  Abbott,  the  future  great  author, 
writing  to  you.  It's  just  Judy — a  girl. 


1^47] 


June  9th. 
Mr,  John  S?mth, 

Sm:  Yours  of  the  7th  inst.  at  hand.  In  compliance 
with  the  instructions  received  through  your  secretary, 
I  leave  on  Friday  next  to  spend  the  summer  at  Lock 
Willow  Farm. 

I  hope  always  to  remain, 
(Miss)  Jerusha  Abbott. 


[148] 


Lock  Willow  Farm. 

August  Third. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

It  has  been  nearly  two  months  since  I  wrote,  which 
wasn't  nice  of  me,  I  know,  but  I  haven't  loved  you 
much  this  summer — ^you  see  I'm  being  frank! 

You  can't  imagine  how  disappointed  I  was  at  having 
to  give  up  the  McBrides'  camp.  Of  course  I  know 
that  you're  my  guardian,  and  that  I  have  to  regard 
your  wishes  in  all  matters,  but  I  couldn't  see  any 
reason.  It  was  so  distinctly  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  me.  If  I  had  been  Daddy,  and  you 
had  been  Judy,  I  should  have  said,  "Bless  you,  my 
child,  run  along  and  have  a  good  time;  see  lots  of  new 
people  and  learn  lots  of  new  things;  live  out  of  doors, 
and  get  strong  and  well  and  rested  for  a  year  of  hard 
work." 

But  not  at  all!  Just  a  curt  line  from  your  secretary 
ordering  me  to  Lock  Willow. 

It's  the  impersonality  of  your  commands  that  hurts 

[^49] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

my  feelings.  It  seems  as  though,  if  you  felt  the  tiniest 
little  bit  for  me  the  way  I  feel  for  you,  you'd  some- 
times send  me  a  message  that  you'd  written  with  your 
own  hand,  instead  of  those  beastly  typewritten  secre- 
tary's notes.  If  there  were  the  slightest  hint  that  you 
cared,  I'd  do  anything  on  earth  to  please  you. 

I  know  that  I  was  to  write  nice,  long,  detailed  letters 
without  ever  expecting  any  answer.  You're  living  up 
to  your  side  of  the  bargain — I'm  being  educated — and 
I  suppose  you're  thinking  I'm  not  living  up  to  mine! 

But,  Daddy,  it  is  a  hard  bargain.  It  is,  really.  I'm 
so  awfully  lonely.  You  are  the  only  person  I  have  to 
care  for,  and  you  are  so  shadowy.  You're  just  an 
imaginary  man  that  I've  made  up — and  probably  the 
real  you  isn't  a  bit  hke  my  imaginary  you.  But  you 
did  once,  when  I  was  ill  in  the  infirmary,  send  m^e  a 
message,  and  now,  when  I  am  feeling  awfully  forgot- 
ten, I  get  out  your  card  and  read  it  over. 

I  don't  think  I  am  telling  you  at  all  what  I  started 
to  say,  which  was  this: 

Although  my  feelings  are  still  hurt,  for  it  is  very 
humihating  to  be  picked  up  and  moved  about  by  an 
arbitrary,  peremptory,  unreasonable,  omnipotent,  in- 
visible Providence,  still,  when  a  man  has  been  as  kind 
and  generous  and  thoughtful  as  you  have  heretofore 
been  toward  me,  I  suppose  he  has  a  right  to  be  an 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

arbitrary,  peremptory,  unreasonable,  invisible  Provi- 
dence if  he  chooses,  and  so — I'll  forgive  you  and  be 
cheerful  again.  But  I  still  don't  enjoy  getting  Sallie's 
letters  about  the  good  times  they  are  having  in  camp! 

Hov^ever — ^v^e  will  drav^  a  veil  over  that  and  begin 
again. 

I've  been  v^riting  and  v^riting  this  summer;  four 
short  stories  finished  and  sent  to  four  different  maga- 
zines. So  you  see  I'm  trying  to  be  an  author.  I  have 
a  work-room  fixed  in  a  corner  of  the  attic  where 
Master  Jervie  used  to  have  his  rainy-day  playroom. 
It's  in  a  cool,  breezy  comer  with  two  dormer  win- 
dows, and  shaded  by  a  maple  tree  with  a  family  of 
red  squirrels  living  in  a  hole. 

I'll  write  a  nicer  letter  in  a  few  days  and  tell  you 
all  the  farm  news. 

We  need  rain.  % 

Yours  as  ever, 

Judy. 


[-5/] 


August  10th. 
Mr.  Daddy 'Long-Legs, 

Sir:  I  address  you  from  the  second  crotch  in  the 
willow  tree  by  the  pool  in  the  pasture.  There's  a  frog 
croaking  underneath,  a  locust  singing  overhead  and 
two  httle  "devil  down-heads"  darting  up  and  down 
the  trunk.  I've  been  here  for  an  hour:  it's  a  very  com- 
fortable crotch,  especially  after  being  upholstered 
with  two  sofa  cushions.  I  came  up  with  a  pen  and 
tablet  hoping  to  write  an  immortal  short  story,  but 
I've  been  having  a  dreadful  time  with  my  heroine — 
I  caji^t  make  her  behave  as  I  want  her  to  behave;  so 
I've  abandoned  her  for  the  moment,  and  am  writing 
to  you.  (Not  much  relief  though,  for  I  can't  make 
you  behave  as  I  want  you  to,  either.) 

If  you  are  in  that  dreadful  New  York,  I  wish  I 
could  send  you  some  of  this  lovely,  breezy,  sunshiny 
outlook.  The  country  is  Heaven  after  a  week  of  rain. 

Speaking  of  Heaven — do  you  remember  Mr.  Kel- 
logg that  I  told  you  about  last  summer? — the  minister 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

of  the  little  white  church  at  the  Comers.  Well,  the 
poor  old  soul  is  dead — ^last  winter  of  pneumonia.  I 
went  haif-a-dozen  times  to  hear  him  preach  and  got 
very  well  acquainted  with  his  theology.  He  believed 
to  the  end  exactly  the  same  things  he  started  with. 
It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  who  can  think  straight  along 
for  forty-seven  years  without  changing  a  single  idea 
ought  to  be  kept  in  a  cabinet  as  a  curiosity.  I  hope 
he  is  enjoying  his  harp  and  golden  crown;  he  was  so 
perfectly  sure  of  finding  them!  There's  a  nev/  young 
man,  very  up  and  coming,  in  his  place.  The  congre- 
gation is  pretty  dubious,  especially  the  faction  led  by 
Deacon  Cummings.  It  looks  as  though  there  was  go- 
ing to  be  an  awful  split  in  the  church.  We  don't  care 
for  innovations  in  religion  in  this  neighborhood. 

During  our  week  of  rain  I  sat  up  in  the  attic  and 
had  an  orgy  of  reading — Stevenson,  mostly.  He  him- 
self is  more  entertaining  than  any  of  the  characters 
in  his  books;  I  dare  say  he  made  himself  into  the  kind 
of  hero  that  would  look  well  in  print.  Don't  you 
think  it  was  perfect  of  him  to  spend  all  the  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  his  father  left  for  a  yacht  and  go  sailing 
off  to  the  South  Seas?  He  lived  up  to  his  adventurous 
creed.  If  my  father  had  left  me  ten  thousand  dollars, 
I'd  do  it,  too.  The  thought  of  Vailima  makes  me  wild. 
I  want  to  see  the  tropics.   I  want  to  see  the  whole 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

world.  I  am  going  to  some  day — I  am,  really,  Daddy, 
when  I  get  to  be  a  great  author,  or  artist,  or  actress, 
or  playwright — or  whatever  sort  of  a  great  person  1 
turn  out  to  be.  I  have  a  terrible  wanderthirst;  the  very 
sight  of  a  map  makes  me  want  to  put  on  my  hat  and 
take  an  umbrella  and  start.  "I  shall  see  before  I  die 
the  palms  and  temple  of  the  South." 

Thursday  evening  at  twilight,  sitting  on  the  doorstep. 

Very  hard  to  get  any  news  into  this  letter!    Judy 
is  becoming  so  philosophical  of  late,  that  she  wishes 

i.^—^     Vr^      i-~A? 

^  T  r 

{^54} 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

to  discourse  largely  of  the  world  in  general,  instead 
of  descending  to  the  trivial  details  of  daily  life.  But 
if  you  ?nust  have  news,  here  it  is: 

Our  nine  young  pigs  waded  across  the  brook  and 
ran  away  last  Tuesday,  and  only  eight  came  back. 
We  don't  want  to  accuse  any  one  unjustly,  but  we 
suspect  that  Widow  Dowd  has  one  more  than  she 
ought  to  have. 

Mr.  Weaver  has  painted  his  barn  and  his  two  silos 
a  bright  pumpkin  yellow — a  very  ugly  color,  but  he 
says  it  will  wear. 

The  Brewers  have  company  this  week;  Mrs.  Brew- 
er's sister  and  two  nieces  from  Ohio. 


^  *^  § 


:^ 


One  of  our  Rhode  Island  Reds  only  brought  off 
three  chicks  out  of  fifteen  eggs.  We  can't  imagine 
what  was  the  trouble.  Rhode  Island  Reds,  in  my  opin- 
ion, are  a  very  inferior  breed.  I  prefer  Buff  Orping- 
tons. 

[^55] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

The  new  clerk  in  the  post-office  at  Bonnyrigg  Four 
Corners  drank  every  drop  of  Jamaica  ginger  they  had 
in  stock — seven  dollars'  worth — before  he  was  dis- 
covered. 

Old  Ira  Hatch  has  rheumatism  and  can't  work  any 
more;  he  never  saved  his  money  when  he  was  earning 
good  wages,  so  now  he  has  to  live  on  the  town. 

There's  to  be  an  ice-cream  social  at  the  schoolhouse 
next  Saturday  evening.  Come  and  bring  your  families. 

I  have  a  new  hat  that  I  bought  for  twenty-five  cents 
at  the  post-ofiice.  This  is  my  latest  portrait,  on  my 
way  to  rake  the  hay. 

It's  getting  too  dark  to  see;  anyway,  the  news  is  all 
used  up. 

Good  night, 

Judy. 


[^56] 


Friday. 

Good  morning!  Here  is  some  news!  What  do  you 
think?  You'd  never,  never,  never  guess  who's  coming 
to  Lock  Willow.  A  letter  to  Mrs.  Semple  from  Mr. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Pendleton.  He's  motoring  through  the  Berkshires, 
and  is  tired  and  wants  to  rest  on  a  nice  quiet  farm — 
if  he  climbs  out  at  her  doorstep  some  night  will  she 
have  a  room  ready  for  him?  Maybe  he'll  stay  one 
week,  or  maybe  two,  or  maybe  three;  he'll  see  how 
restful  it  is  when  he  gets  here. 

Such  a  flutter  as  we  are  in!  The  whole  house  is 
being  cleaned  and  all  the  curtains  washed.  I  am  driv- 
ing to  the  Comers  this  morning  to  get  some  new  oil 
cloth  for  the  entry,  and  two  cans  of  brown  floor  paint 
for  the  hall  and  back  stairs.  Mrs.  Dowd  is  engaged 
to  come  to-morrow  to  wash  the  windows  (in  the 
exigency  of  the  moment,  we  waive  our  suspicions  in 
regard  to  the  piglet).  You  might  think,  from  this 
account  of  our  activities,  that  the  house  was  not  al- 
ready immaculate;  but  I  assure  you  it  was!  Whatever 
Mrs.  Semple's  limitations,  she  is  a  HOUSEKEEPER. 

But  isn't  it  just  like  a  man,  Daddy?  He  doesn't  give 
the  remotest  hint  as  to  whether  he  will  land  on  the 
doorstep  to-day,  or  two  weeks  from  to-day.  We  shall 
live  in  a  perpetual  breathlessness  until  he  comes — and 
if  he  doesn't  hurry,  the  cleaning  may  all  have  to  be 
done  over  again. 

There's  Amasai  waiting  below  with  the  buckboard 
and  Grover.  I  drive  alone — but  if  you  could  see  old 
Grove,  you  wouldn't  be  worried  as  to  my  safety. 

[^58] 


With  my  hand  on  my  heart — farewell. 


Judy. 


P.  S.  Isn't  that  a  nice  ending?  I  got  it  out  of  Steven- 
son's letters. 


Saturday. 

Good  morning  again!  I  didn't  get  this  enveloped 
yesterday  before  the  postman  came,  so  I'll  add  some 
more.  We  have  one  mail  a  day  at  twelve  o'clock. 
Rural  deHvery  is  a  blessing  to  the  farmers!  Our  post- 
man not  only  dehvers  letters,  but  he  runs  errands  for 
us  in  town,  at  five  cents  an  errand.  Yesterday  he 
brought  me  some  shoe-strings  and  a  jar  of  cold  cream 
(I  sunburned  all  the  skin  off  my  nose  before  I  got 

[^59] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

my  new  hat)  and  a  blue  Windsor  tie  and  a  bottle  of 
blacking  all  for  ten  cents.  That  was  an  unusual  bar- 
gain, owing  to  the  largeness  of  my  order. 

Also  he  tells  us  what  is  happening  in  the  Great 
World.  Several  people  on  the  route  take  daily  papers, 
and  he  reads  them  as  he  jogs  along,  and  repeats  the 
news  to  the  ones  who  don't  subscribe.  So  in  case  a 
war  breaks  out  between  the  United  States  and  Japan, 
or  the  president  is  assassinated,  or  Mr.  Rockefeller 
leaves  a  million  dollars  to  the  John  Grier  Home,  you 
needn't  bother  to  write;  I'll  hear  it  anyway. 

No  sign  yet  of  Master  Jervie.  But  you  should  see 
how  clean  our  house  is — and  with  what  anxiety  we 
wipe  our  feet  before  we  step  in! 

I  hope  he'll  come  soon;  I  am  longing  for  some  one 
to  talk  to.  Mrs.  Semple,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  gets 
sort  of  monotonous.  She  never  lets  ideas  interrupt 
the  easy  flow  of  her  conversation.  It's  a  funny  thing 
about  the  people  here.  Their  world  is  just  this  single 
hilltop.  They  are  not  a  bit  universal,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean.  It's  exactly  the  same  as  at  the  John 
Grier  Home.  Our  ideas  there  were  bounded  by  the 
four  sides  of  the  iron  fence,  only  I  didn't  mind  it  so 
much  because  I  was  younger  and  was  so  awfully  busy. 
By  the  time  I'd  got  all  my  beds  made  and  my  babies' 
faces  washed  and  had  gone  to  school  and  come  home 

{i6o] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  had  washed  their  faces  again  and  darned  their 
stockings  and  mended  Freddie  Perkins's  trousers  (he 
tore  them  every  day  of  his  life)  and  learned  my  lessons 
in  between — I  was  ready  to  go  to  bed,  and  I  didn't 
notice  any  lack  of  social  intercourse.  But  after  two 
years  in  a  conversational  college,  I  do  miss  it;  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  somebody  who  speaks  my  lan- 
guage. 

I  really  believe  I've  finished,  Daddy.  Nothing  else 
occurs  to  me  at  the  moment — ^I'U  try  to  write  a  longer 
letter  next  time. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 

P.S.  The  lettuce  hasn't  done  at  all  well  this  year. 
It  was  so  dry  early  in  the  season. 


\i6il 


August  25th. 

Well,  Daddy,  Master  Jervie's  here.  And  such  a  nice 
time  as  we're  having!  At  least  I  am,  and  I  think  he  is, 
too — he  has  been  here  ten  days  and  he  doesn't  show 
any  signs  of  going.  The  way  Mrs.  Semple  pampers 
that  man  is  scandalous.  If  she  indulged  him  as  much 
when  he  was  a  baby,  I  don't  know  how  he  ever 
turned  out  so  well. 

He  and  I  ate  at  a  little  table  set  on  the  side  porch,  or 
sometimes  under  the  trees,  or — ^when  it  rains  or  is 
cold — in  the  best  parlor.  He  just  picks  out  the  spot 
he  wants  to  eat  in  and  Carrie  trots  after  him  with  the 
table.  Then  if  it  has  been  an  awful  nuisance,  and  she 
has  had  to  carry  the  dishes  very  far,  she  finds  a  dollar 
under  the  sugar  bowl! 

He  is  an  awfully  companionable  sort  of  man, 
though  you  would  never  believe  it  to  see  him  casually; 
he  looks  at  first  glance  like  a  true  Pendleton,  but  he 
isn't  in  the  least.  He  is  just  as  simple  and  unaffected 
and  sweet  as  he  can  be — ^that  seems  a  funny  way  to 

{162] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

describe  a  man,  but  it's  true.  He's  extremely  nice  with 
the  farmers  around  here;  he  meets  them  in  a  sort  of 
man-to-man  fashion  that  disarms  them  immediately. 
They  were  very  suspicious  at  first.  They  didn't  care 
for  his  clothes!  And  I  will  say  that  his  clothes  are 
rather  amazing.  He  wears  knickerbockers  and  pleated 
jackets  and  white  flannels  and  riding  clothes  with 
puffed  trousers.  Whenever  he  comes  down  in  any- 
thing new,  Mrs.  Semple,  beaming  with  pride,  walks 
around  and  views  him  from  every  angle,  and  urges 
him  to  be  careful  where  he  sits  down;  she  is  so  afraid 
he  will  pick  up  some  dust.  It  bores  him  dreadfully. 
He's  always  saying  to  her: 

"Run  along,  Lizzie,  and  tend  to  your  work.  You 
can't  boss  me  any  longer.  I've  grown  up." 

It's  awfully  funny  to  think  of  that  great,  big,  long- 
legged  man  (he's  nearly  as  long-legged  as  you.  Daddy) 
ever  sitting  in  Mrs.  Semple's  lap  and  having  his  face 
washed.  Particularly  funny  when  you  see  her  lap! 
She  has  two  laps  now,  and  three  chins.  But  he  says 
that  once  she  was  thin  and  wiry  and  spry  and  could 
run  faster  than  he. 

Such  a  lot  of  adventures  we're  having!  We've  ex- 
plored the  country  for  miles,  and  I've  learned  to  fish 
with  funny  little  flies  made  of  feathers.  Also  to  shoot 
with  a  rifle  and  a  revolver.  Also  to  ride  horseback — 

[765] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 


there's  an  astonishing  amount  of  life  in  old  Grove. 
We  fed  him  on  oats  for  three  days,  and  he  shied  at  a 
calf  and  almost  ran  away  with  me. 


Wednesday. 

We  climbed  Sky  Hill  Monday  afternoon.  That's 
a  mountain  near  here;  not  an  awfully  high  mountain, 
perhaps — no  snow  on  the  summit — but  at  least  you 
are  pretty  breathless  when  you  reach  the  top.  The 
lower  slopes  are  covered  with  woods,  but  the  top  is 
just  piled  rocks  and  open  moor.  We  stayed  up  for 
the  sunset  and  built  a  fire  and  cooked  our  supper. 

[164] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Master  Jervie  did  the  cooking;  he  said  he  knew  how 
better  than  me — and  he  did,  too,  because  he's  used  to 
camping.  Then  we  came  down  by  moonlight,  and, 
when  we  reached  the  wood  trail  where  it  was  dark, 
by  the  light  of  an  electric  bulb  that  he  had  in  his 
pocket.  It  was  such  fun!  He  laughed  and  joked  all 
the  way  and  talked  about  interesting  things.  He's 
read  all  the  books  Fve  ever  read,  and  a  lot  of  others 
besides.  It's  astonishing  how  many  different  things  he 
knows. 

We  went  for  a  long  tramp  this  morning  and  got 
caught  in  a  storm.  Our  clothes  were  drenched  before 
we  reached  home — but  our  spirits  not  even  damp. 
You  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Semple's  face  when  we 
dripped  into  her  kitchen. 

"Oh,  Master  Jervie — Miss  Judy!  You  are  soaked 
through.  Dear!  Dear!  What  shall  I  do?  That  nice 
new  coat  is  perfectly  ruined." 

She  was  awfully  funny;  you  would  have  thought 
that  we  were  ten  years  old,  and  she  a  distracted 
mother.  I  was  afraid  for  a  while  that  we  weren't 
going  to  get  any  jam  for  tea. 

Saturday. 

I  started  this  letter  ages  ago,  but  I  haven't  had  a 
second  to  finish  it. 

[^65] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Isn't  this  a  nice  thought  from  Stevenson? 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  am  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

It's  true,  you  know.  The  world  is  full  of  happiness, 
and  plenty  to  go  round,  if  you  are  only  willing  to  take 
the  kind  that  comes  your  way.  The  whole  secret  is  in 
being  pliable.  In  the  country,  especially,  there  are 
such  a  lot  of  entertaining  things.  I  can  walk  over 
everybody's  land,  and  look  at  everybody's  view,  and 
dabble  in  everybody's  brook;  and  enjoy  it  just  as  much 
as  though  I  owned  the  land — and  with  no  taxes  to 
pay! 

•  •  •  •  • 

It's  Sunday  night  now,  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  I 
am  supposed  to  be  getting  some  beauty  sleep,  but  I 
had  black  coffee  for  dinner,  so — no  beauty  sleep  for 
me! 

This  morning,  said  Mrs.  Semple  to  Mr.  Pendleton, 
with  a  very  determined  accent: 

"We  have  to  leave  here  at  a  quarter  past  ten  in  order 
to  get  to  church  by  eleven." 

"Very  well,  Lizzie,"  said  Master  Jervie,  "you  have 
the  surrey  ready,  and  if  I'm  not  dressed,  just  go  on 
without  waiting." 

"We'U  wait,"  said  she. 

[i66] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

"As  you  please,"  said  he,  "only  don't  keep  the  horses 
standing  too  long." 

Then  while  she  was  dressing,  he  told  Carrie  to  pack 
up  a  lunch,  and  he  told  me  to  scramble  into  my  walk- 
ing clothes;  and  we  slipped  out  the  back  way  and 
went  fishing. 

It  discommoded  the  household  dreadfully,  because 
Lock  Willow  of  a  Sunday  dines  at  two.  But  he 
ordered  dinner  at  seven — he  orders  meals  whenever 
he  chooses;  you  would  think  the  place  were  a  restau- 
rant— and  that  kept  Carrie  and  Amasai  from  going 
driving.  But  he  said  it  was  all  the  better  because  it 
wasn't  proper  for  them  to  go  driving  without  a 
chaperon;  and  anyway,  he  wanted  the  horses  himself 
to  take  me  driving.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so 
funny? 

And  poor  Mrs.  Semple  believes  that  people  who  go 
fishing  on  Sundays,  go  afterwards  to  a  sizzling  hot 
hell!  She  is  awfully  troubled  to  think  that  she  didn't 
train  him  better  when  he  was  small  and  helpless  and 
she  had  the  chance.  Besides — she  wished  to  show  him 
off  in  church. 

Anyway,  we  had  our  fishing  (he  caught  four  little 
ones)  and  we  cooked  them  on  a  camp-fire  for  lunch. 
They  kept  falling  off  our  spiked  sticks  into  the  fire,  so 
they  tasted  a  little  ashy,  but  we  ate  them.   We  got 

[167] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

home  at  four  and  went  driving  at  five  and  had  dinner 
at  seven,  and  at  ten  I  was  sent  to  bed — and  here  I  am, 
writing  to  you. 
I  am  getting  a  little  sleepy  though. 

Good  night. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  one  fish  I  caught. 


^^- 


^:^7>^^3rf 


[i68] 


Ship  ahoy,  Cap^n  Long-Legs! 

Avast!  Belay!  Yo,  ho,  ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum. 
Guess  what  I'm  reading?  Our  conversation  these  past 
two  days  has  been  nautical  and  piratical.  Isn't 
"Treasure  Island"  fun?  Did  you  ever  read  it,  or  wasn't 
it  written  when  you  were  a  boy?  Stevenson  only  got 
thirty  pounds  for  the  serial  rights — I  don't  beheve  it 
pays  to  be  a  great  author.  Maybe  I'll  teach  school. 

Excuse  me  for  filling  my  letters  so  full  of  Stevenson; 
my  mind  is  very  much  engaged  with  him  at  present. 
He  comprises  Lock  Willow's  library. 

I've  been  writing  this  letter  for  two  weeks,  and  I 
think  it's  about  long  enough.  Never  say,  Daddy,  that 
I  don't  give  details.  I  wish  you  were  here,  too;  we'd 
all  have  such  a  jolly  time  together.  I  like  my  different 
friends  to  know  each  other.    I  wanted  to  ask  Mr. 

[169] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Pendleton  if  he  knew  you  in  New  York — I  should 
think  he  might;  you  must  move  in  about  the  same 
exalted  social  circles,  and  you  are  both  interested  in 
reforms  and  things — but  I  couldn't,  for  I  don't  know 
your  real  name. 

It's  the  silliest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,  not  to  know 
your  name.  Mrs.  Lippett  warned  me  that  you  were 
eccentric.  I  should  think  so! 

Affectionately, 

JXJDY. 

P.  S.  On  reading  this  over,  I  find  that  it  isn't  all 
Stevenson.  There  are  one  or  two  glancing  references 
to  Master  Jervie. 


[770] 


September  10th. 
Dear  Daddy, 

He  has  gone,  and  we  are  missing  him!  When  you 
get  accustomed  to  people  or  places  or  ways  of  living, 
and  then  have  them  suddenly  snatched  away,  it  does 
leave  an  awfully  empty,  gnawing  sort  of  sensation. 
Pm  finding  Mrs.  Semple's  conversation  pretty  un- 
seasoned food. 

College  opens  in  two  weeks  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
begin  work  again.  I  have  worked  quite  a  lot  this 
summer  though — six  short  stories  and  seven  poems. 
Those  I  sent  to  the  magazines  all  came  back  with  the 
most  courteous  promptitude.  But  I  don't  mind.  It's 
good  practice.  Master  Jervie  read  them — he  brought 
in  the  mail,  so  I  couldn't  help  his  knowing — and  he 
said  they  were  dreadful.  They  showed  that  I  didn't 
have  the  slightest  idea  of  what  I  was  talking  about. 
(Master  Jervie  doesn't  let  politeness  interfere  with 
truth.)  But  the  last  one  I  did — just  a  little  sketch  laid 
in  college — he  said  wasn't  bad;  and  he  had  it  type- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

written,  and  I  sent  it  to  a  magazine.  They've  had  it 
two  weeks;  maybe  they're  thinking  it  over. 

You  should  see  the  sky!  There's  the  queerest 
orange-colored  light  over  everything.  We're  going  to 
have  a  storm. 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  commenced  just  that  moment  with  drops  as  big 
as  quarters  and  all  the  shutters  banging.  I  had  to  run 
to  close  windows,  while  Carrie  flew  to  the  attic  with 
an  armful  of  milk  pans  to  put  under  the  places  where 
the  roofs  leaks — and  then,  just  as  I  was  resuming  my 
pen,  I  remembered  that  I'd  left  a  cushion  and  rug  and 
hat  and  Matthew  Arnold's  poems  under  a  tree  in  the 
orchard,  so  I  dashed  out  to  get  them,  all  quite  soaked. 
The  red  cover  of  the  poems  had  run  into  the  inside; 
"Dover  Beach"  in  the  future  will  be  washed  by  pink 
waves. 

A  storm  is  awfully  disturbing  in  the  country.  You 
are  always  having  to  think  of  so  many  things  that  are 
out  of  doors  and  getting  spoiled. 

Thursday. 

Daddy!  Daddy!  What  do  you  think?  The  postman 
has  just  come  with  two  letters. 
ist. — My  story  is  accepted.  $50. 
Alorsf  Fm  an  AUTHOR. 

[772] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

2d. — ^A  letter  from  the  college  secretary  Fm  to  have 
a  scholarship  for  two  years  that  will  cover  board  and 
tuition.  It  was  founded  by  an  alumna  for  "marked 
proficiency  in  English  with  general  excellency  in 
other  Hues."  And  I've  won  it!  I  applied  for  it  before 
I  left,  but  I  didn't  have  an  idea  I'd  get  it,  on  account 
of  my  Freshman  bad  work  in  math,  and  Latin.  But  it 
seems  I've  made  it  up.  I  am  awfully  glad,  Daddy,  be- 
cause now  I  won't  be  such  a  burden  to  you.  The 
monthly  allowance  will  be  all  I'll  need,  and  maybe  I 
can  earn  that  with  writing  or  tutoring  or  something. 

I'm  crazy  to  go  bact  and  begin  work. 

Yours  ever, 
Jerusha  Abbott, 

Author  of,  "When  the  Sophomores 
Won  the  Game."  For  sale  at  all 
news  stands,  price  ten  cents. 


lm\ 


September  26th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Back  at  college  again  and  an  upper  classman.  Our 
study  is  better  than  ever  this  year — faces  the  South 
with  two  huge  windows — and  oh!  so  furnished.  JuHa, 
with  an  unlimited  allowance,  arrived  two  days  early 
and  was  attacked  with  a  fever  of  settling. 

We  have  new  wall  paper  and  Oriental  rugs  and 
mahogany  chairs — not  painted  mahogany  which  made 
us  sufficiently  happy  last  year,  but  real.  It's  very 
gorgeous,  but  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  belonged  in  it; 
Fm  nervous  all  the  time  for  fear  I'll  get  an  ink  spot  in 
the  wrong  place. 

And,  Daddy,  I  found  your  letter  waiting  for  me — 
pardon — I  mean  your  secretary's. 

Will  you  kindly  convey  to  me  a  comprehensible 
reason  why  I  should  not  accept  that  scholarship?  I 
don't  understand  your  objection  in  the  least.  But  any- 
way, it  won't  do  the  slightest  good  for  you  to  object, 
for  I've  already  accepted  it — and  I  am  not  going  to 

U74] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

change!  That  sounds  a  little  impertinent,  but  I  don't 
mean  it  so. 

I  suppose  you  feel  that  when  you  set  out  to  educate 
me,  you'd  like  to  finish  the  work,  and  put  a  neat 
period,  in  the  shape  of  a  diploma,  at  the  end. 

But  look  at  it  just  a  second  from  my  point  of  view. 
I  shall  owe  my  education  to  you  just  as  much  as 
though  I  let  you  pay  for  the  whole  of  it,  but  I  won't 
be  quite  so  much  indebted.  I  know  that  you  don't 
want  me  to  return  the  money,  but  nevertheless,  I  am 
going  to  want  to  do  it,  if  I  possibly  can;  and  winning 
this  scholarship  makes  it  so  much  easier.  I  was  expect- 
ing to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  paying  my  debts, 
but  now  I  shall  only  have  to  spend  one-half  of  the  rest 
of  it. 

I  hope  you  understand  my  position  and  won't  be 
cross.  The  allowance  I  shall  still  most  gratefully  ac- 
cept. It  requires  an  allowance  to  live  up  to  JuHa  and 
her  furniture!  I  wish  that  she  had  been  reared  to 
simpler  tastes,  or  else  that  she  were  not  my  room-mate. 

This  isn't  much  of  a  letter;  I  meant  to  have  written 
a  lot — but  I've  been  hemming  four  window  curtains 
and  three  portieres  (I'm  glad  you  can't  see  the  length 
of  the  stitches)  and  polishing  a  brass  desk  set  with 
tooth  powder  (very  uphill  work)  and  sawing  off  pic- 
ture wire  with  manicure  scissors,  and  unpacking  four 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

boxes  of  books,  and  putting  away  two  trunkfuls  of 
clothes  (it  doesn't  seem  believable  that  Jerusha  Abbott 
owns  two  trunks  full  of  clothes,  but  she  does!)  and 
welcoming  back  fifty  dear  friends  in  between. 

Opening  day  is  a  joyous  occasion! 

Good  night,  Daddy  dear,  and  don't  be  annoyed  be- 
cause your  chick  is  wanting  to  scratch  for  herself. 
She's  growing  up  into  an  awfully  energetic  little  hen 
— ^with  a  very  determined  cluck  and  lots  of  beauti- 
ful feathers  (all  due  to  you). 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


[iy6] 


September  30th. 
Dear  Daddy, 

Are  you  still  harping  on  that  scholarship?  I  never 
knew  a  man  so  obstinate  and  stubborn  and  unreason- 
able, and  tenacious,  and  bull-doggish,  and  unable-to- 
see-other-peopleVpoints-of-view  as  you. 

You  prefer  that  I  should  not  be  accepting  favors 
from  strangers. 

Strangers! — And  what  are  you,  pray? 

Is  there  any  one  in  the  world  that  I  know  less?  I 
shouldn't  recognize  you  if  I  met  you  on  the  street. 
Now,  you  see,  if  you  had  been  a  sane,  sensible  person 
and  had  written  nice,  cheering,  fatherly  letters  to 
your  Httle  Judy,  and  had  come  occasionally  and  patted 
her  on  the  head,  and  had  said  you  were  glad  she  was 
such  a  good  girl —  Then,  perhaps,  she  wouldn't  have 
flouted  you  in  your  old  age,  but  would  have  obeyed 
your  slightest  wish  like  the  dutiful  daughter  she  was 
meant  to  be. 

Strangers  indeed!  You  live  in  a  glass  house,  Mr. 
Smith. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

And  besides,  this  isn't  a  favor;  it's  like  a  prize — ^I 
earned  it  by  hard  work.  If  nobody  had  been  good 
enough  in  English,  the  committee  wouldn't  have 
awarded  the  scholarship;  some  years  they  don't. 
Also —  But  what's  the  use  of  arguing  with  a  man? 
You  belong,  Mr.  Smith,  to  a  sex  devoid  of  a  sense  of 
logic.  To  bring  a  man  into  line,  there  are  just  two 
methods:  one  must  either  coax  or  be  disagreeable.  I 
scorn  to  coax  men  for  what  I  wish.  Therefore,  I 
must  be  disagreeable. 

I  refuse,  sir,  to  give  up  the  scholarship;  and  if  you 
make  any  more  fuss,  I  won't  accept  the  monthly  al- 
lowance either,  but  will  wear  myself  into  a  nervous 
wreck  tutoring  stupid  Freshmen. 

That  is  my  ultimatum! 

And  listen — I  have  a  further  thought.  Since  you 
are  so  afraid  that  by  taking  this  scholarship,  I  am  de- 
priving some  one  else  of  an  education,  I  know  a  way 
out.  You  can  apply  the  money  that  you  would  have 
spent  for  me,  toward  educating  some  other  little  girl 
from  the  John  Grier  Home.  Don't  you  think  that's  a 
nice  idea?  Only,  Daddy,  educate  the  new  girl  as  much 
as  you  choose,  but  please  don't  like  her  any  better  than 
me. 

I  trust  that  your  secretary  won't  be  hurt  because  I 
pay  so  httle  attention  to  the  suggestions  offered  in  his 

[775] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

letter,  but  I  can't  help  it  if  he  is.  He's  a  spoiled  child, 
Daddy.  I've  meekly  given  in  to  his  whims  heretofore, 
but  this  time  I  intend  to  be  FIRM, 
Yours, 

With  a  Mind, 

Completely  and  Irrevocably  and 

World-without-End  Made-up. 

Jerusha  Abbott. 


[^79] 


November  9th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  started  down  town  to-day  to  buy  a  bottle  of  shoe 
blacking  and  some  collars  and  the  material  for  a  new 
blouse  and  a  jar  of  violet  cream  and  a  cake  of  Castile 
soap — all  very  necessary;  I  couldn't  be  happy  another 
day  without  them — and  when  I  tried  to  pay  the  car 
fare,  I  found  that  I  had  left  my  purse  in  the  pocket  of 
my  other  coat.  So  I  had  to  get  out  and  take  the  next 
car,  and  was  late  for  gymnasium. 

It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  no  memory  and  two 
coats! 

Julia  Pendleton  has  invited  me  to  visit  her  for  the 
Christmas  hoHdays.  How  does  that  strike  you,  Mr. 
Smith?  Fancy  Jerusha  Abbott,  of  the  John  Grier 
Home,  sitting  at  the  tables  of  the  rich.  I  don't  know 
why  Julia  wants  me — she  seems  to  be  getting  quite  at- 
tached to  me  of  late.  I  should,  to  tell  the  truth,  very 
much  prefer  going  to  Sallie's,  but  Julia  asked  me  first, 
so  if  I  go  anywhere,  it  must  be  to  New  York  instead 

[j8o] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

of  to  Worcester.  Fm  rather  awed  at  the  prospect  of 
meeting  Pendletons  en  masse,  and  also  I'd  have  to  get 
a  lot  of  new  clothes — so,  Daddy  dear,  if  yon  write 
that  you  would  prefer  having  me  remain  quietly  at 
college,  I  will  bow  to  your  wishes  with  my  usual  sweet 
docility. 

Fm  engaged  at  odd  moments  with  the  "Life  and 
Letters  of  Thomas  Huxley" — it  makes  nice,  light  read- 
ing to  pick  up  between  times.  Do  you  know  what  an 
archseopteryx  is?  It's  a  bird.  And  a  stereognathus? 
Fm  not  sure  myself  but  I  think  it's  a  missing  link,  like 
a  bird  with  teeth  or  a  lizard  with  wings.  No,  it  isn't 
either;  I've  just  looked  in  the  book.  It's  a  mesozoic 
mammal, 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I've  elected  economics  this  year — ^very  illuminating 
subject.  When  I  finish  that  I'm  going  to  take  Charity 
and  Reform;  then,  Mr.  Trustee,  I'll  know  just  how  an 
orphan  asylum  ought  to  be  run.  Don't  you  think  I'd 
make  an  admirable  voter  if  I  had  my  rights?  I  was 
twenty-one  last  week.  This  is  an  awfully  wasteful 
country  to  throw  away  such  an  honest,  educated,  con- 
scientious, intelligent  citizen  as  I  would  be. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 


[182] 


December  7th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Thank  you  for  permission  to  visit  Julia — I  take  it 
that  silence  means  consent. 

Such  a  social  whirl  as  weVe  been  having!  The 
founder's  dance  came  last  week — this  was  the  first 
year  that  any  of  us  could  attend;  only  upper  classmen 
being  allowed. 

I  invited  Jimmie  McBride,  and  Sallie  invited  his 
room-mate  at  Princeton,  who  visited  them  last  summer 
at  their  camp — an  awfully  nice  man  with  red  hair — 
and  Julia  invited  a  man  from  New  York,  not  very 
exciting,  but  socially  irreproachable.  He  is  connected 
with  the  De  la  Mater  Chichesters.  Perhaps  that  means 
something  to  you?  It  doesn't  illuminate  me  to  any 
extent. 

However — our  guests  came  Friday  afternoon  in 
time  for  tea  in  the  Senior  corridor,  and  then  dashed 
down  to  the  hotel  for  dinner.  The  hotel  was  so  full 
that  they  slept  in  rows  on  the  billiard  tables,  they  say. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Jimmie  McBride  says  that  the  next  time  he  is  bidden 
to  a  social  event  in  this  college,  he  is  going  to  bring 
one  of  their  Adirondack  tents  and  pitch  it  on  the 
campus. 

At  seven-thirty  they  came  back  for  the  President's 
reception  and  dance.  Our  functions  commence  early! 
We  had  the  men's  cards  all  made  out  ahead  of  time, 
and  after  every  dance,  v^e'd  leave  them  in  groups 
under  the  letter  that  stood  for  their  names,  so  that 
they  could  be  readily  found  by  their  next  partners. 
Jimmie  McBride,  for  example,  v^ould  stand  patiently 
under  "M"  until  he  was  claimed.  (At  least,  he  ought 
to  have  stood  patiently,  but  he  kept  v^andering  off  and 
getting  mixed  with  "R's"  and  "S's"  and  all  sorts  of 
letters.)  I  found  him  a  very  difficult  guest;  he  was 
sulky  because  he  had  only  three  dances  with  me.  He 
said  he  was  bashful  about  dancing  with  girls  he  didn't 
know! 

The  next  morning  we  had  a  glee  club  concert — and 
who  do  you  think  wrote  the  funny  new  song  com- 
posed for  the  occasion?  It's  the  truth.  She  did.  Oh,  I 
tell  you.  Daddy,  your  Httle  foundling  is  getting  to  be 
quite  a  prominent  person! 

Anyway,  our  gay  two  days  were  great  fun,  and  I 
think  the  men  enjoyed  it.  Some  of  them  were  awfully 
perturbed  at  first  at  the  prospect  of  facing  one  thou- 

[184] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

sand  girls;  but  they  got  acclimated  very  quickly.  Our 
two  Princeton  men  had  a  beautiful  time — at  least  they 
politely  said  they  had,  and  they've  invited  us  to  their 
dance  next  spring.  We've  accepted,  so  please  don't 
object,  Daddy  dear. 

Julia  and  Sallie  and  I  all  had  new  dresses.  Do  you 
want  to  hear  about  them?  Julia's  was  cream  satin  and 
gold  embroidery,  and  she  wore  purple  orchids.  It 
was  a  dream  and  came  from  Paris,  and  cost  a  million 
dollars. 

Sallie's  was  pale  blue  trimmed  with  Persian  em- 
broidery, and  went  beautifully  with  red  hair.  It  didn't 
cost  quite  a  million,  but  was  just  as  effective  as  Julia's. 

Mine  was  pale  pink  crepe  de  chine  trimmed  with 
ecru  lace  and  rose  satin.  And  I  carried  crimson  roses 
which  J.  McB.  sent  (SaHie  having  told  him  what  color 
to  get) .  And  we  all  had  satin  slippers  and  silk  stock- 
ings and  chiffon  scarfs  to  match. 

You  must  be  deeply  impressed  by  these  millinery 
details! 

One  can't  help  thinking,  Daddy,  what  a  colorless 
life  a  man  is  forced  to  lead,  when  one  reflects  that 
chiffon  and  Venetian  point  and  hand  embroidery  and 
Irish  crochet  are  to  him  mere  empty  words.  Whereas 
a  woman,  whether  she  is  interested  in  babies  or  mi- 
crobes or  husbands  or  poetry  or  servants  or  parallelo- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

grams  or  gardens  or  Plato  or  bridge — ^is  fundamentally 
and  always  interested  in  clothes. 

It's  the  one  touch  of  nature  that  makes  the  whole 
world  kin.  (That  isn't  original.  I  got  it  out  of  one  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.) 

However,  to  resume.  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  a 
secret  that  I've  lately  discovered?  And  will  you 
promise  not  to  think  me  vain?  Then  listen: 

I'm  pretty. 

I  am,  really.  I'd  be  an  awful  idiot  not  to  know  it 
with  three  looking-glasses  in  the  room. 

A  Friend. 

P.S.  This  is  one  of  those  wicked  anonymous  letters 
you  read  about  in  novels. 


[i86] 


December  20th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs^ 

IVe  just  a  moment,  because  I  must  attend  two 
classes,  pack  a  trunk  and  a  suitcase,  and  catch  the  four 
o'clock  train — but  I  couldn't  go  without  sending  a 
word  to  let  you  know  how  much  I  appreciate  my 
Christmas  box. 

I  love  the  furs  and  the  necklace  and  the  liberty 
scarf  and  the  gloves  and  handkerchiefs  and  books  and 
purse — and  most  of  all  I  love  you!  But,  Daddy,  you 
have  no  business  to  spoil  me  this  way.  I'm  only  human 
— and  a  girl  at  that.  How  can  I  keep  my  mind  sternly 
fixed  on  a  studious  career,  when  you  deflect  me  with 
such  worldly  frivolities? 

I  have  strong  suspicions  now  as  to  which  one  of  the 
John  Grier  Trustees  used  to  give  the  Christmas  tree 
and  the  Sunday  ice-cream.  He  was  nameless,  but  by 
his  works  I  know  him!  You  deserve  to  be  happy  for 
all  the  good  things  you  do. 

Good-by,  and  a  very  merry  Christmas. 

Yours  always, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I  am  sending  a  slight  token,  too.  Do  you  think 
you  would  like  her  if  you  knew  her? 


January  11th. 

I  meant  to  write  to  you  from  the  city,  Daddy,  but 
New  York  is  an  engrossing  place. 

I  had  an  interesting — and  illuminating — time,  but 
Fm  glad  I  don't  belong  in  such  a  family!  I  should 
truly  rather  have  the  John  Grier  Home  for  a  back- 
ground. Whatever  the  drawbacks  of  my  bringing  up, 
there  was  at  least  no  pretense  about  it.  I  know  now 
what  people  mean  when  they  say  they  are  weighted 
down  by  Things.  The  material  atmosphere  of  that 
house  was  crushing;  I  didn't  draw  a  deep  breath  until 
I  was  on  an  express  train  coming  back.  All  the  furni- 
ture was  carved  and  upholstered  and  gorgeous;  the 
people  I  met  were  beautifully  dressed  and  low-voiced 
and  weU-bred,  but  it's  the  truth.  Daddy,  I  never  heard 
one  word  of  real  talk  from  the  time  we  arrived  until 
we  left.  I  don't  think  an  idea  ever  entered  the  front 
door. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  never  thinks  of  anything  but  jewels 
and  dressmakers  and  social  engagements.  She  did  seem 

[i88] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

a  different  kind  of  mother  from  Mrs.  McBride!  If  I 
ever  marry  and  have  a  family,  Fm  going  to  make  them 
as  exactly  like  the  McBrides  as  I  can.  Not  for  all  the 
money  in  the  world  would  I  ever  let  any  children  of 
mine  develop  into  Pendletons.  Maybe  it  isn't  polite 
to  criticize  people  youVe  been  visiting?  If  it  isn't, 
please  excuse.  This  is  very  confidential,  between  you 
and  me. 

I  only  saw  Master  Jervie  once  when  he  called  at  tea 
time,  and  then  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  speak  to  him 
alone.  It  was  sort  of  disappointing  after  our  nice  time 
last  summer.  I  don't  think  he  cares  much  for  his  rela- 
tives— and  I  am  sure  they  don't  care  much  for  him! 
Julia's  mother  says  he's  unbalanced.  He's  a  Socialist 
— except,  thank  Heaven,  he  doesn't  let  his  hair  grow 
and  wear  red  ties.  She  can't  imagine  where  he  picked 
up  his  queer  ideas;  the  family  have  been  Church  of 
England  for  generations.  He  throws  away  his  money 
on  every  sort  of  crazy  reform,  instead  of  spending  it 
on  such  sensible  things  as  yachts  and  automobiles  and 
polo  ponies.  He  does  buy  candy  with  it  though!  He 
sent  Juha  and  me  each  a  box  for  Christmas. 

You  know,  I  think  I'll  be  a  Socialist,  too.  You 
wouldn't  mind,  would  you.  Daddy?  They're  quite 
different  from  Anarchists;  they  don't  beUeve  in  blow- 
ing people  up.  Probably  I  am  one  by  rights;  I  belong 

[189] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

to  the  proletariat.  I  haven't  determined  yet  just  which 
kind  I  am  going  to  be.  I  will  look  into  the  subject  over 
Sunday,  and  declare  my  principles  in  my  next. 

I've  seen  loads  of  theaters  and  hotels  and  beautiful 
houses.  My  mind  is  a  confused  jumble  of  onyx  and 
gilding  and  mosaic  floors  and  palms.  Fm  still  pretty 
breathless  but  I  am  glad  to  get  back  to  college  and  my 
books — I  believe  that  I  really  am  a  student;  this  atmos- 
phere of  academic  calm  I  find  more  bracing  than  New 
York.  College  is  a  very  satisfying  sort  of  life;  the 
books  and  study  and  regular  classes  keep  you  alive 
mentally,  and  then  when  your  mind  gets  tired,  you 
have  the  gymnasium  and  outdoor  athletics,  and  always 
plenty  of  congenial  friends  who  are  thinking  about 
the  same  things  you  are.  We  spend  a  whole  evening 
in  nothing  but  talk — talk — talk — and  go  to  bed  with 
a  very  uplifted  feeling  as  though  we  had  settled  per- 
manently some  pressing  world  problems.  And  filling 
in  every  crevice,  there  is  always  such  a  lot  of  non- 
sense— ^just  silly  jokes  about  the  little  things  that  come 
up — but  very  satisfying.  We  do  appreciate  our  own 
witticisms! 

It  isn't  the  great  big  pleasures  that  count  the  most; 
it's  making  a  great  deal  out  of  the  little  ones — I've  dis- 
covered the  true  secret  of  happiness.  Daddy,  and  that 
IS  to  live  in  the  now.  Not  to  be  forever  regretting  the 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

past,  or  anticipating  the  future;  but  to  get  the  most 
that  you  can  out  of  this  very  instant.  It's  like  farming. 
You  can  have  extensive  farming  and  intensive  farm- 
ing; well,  I  am  going  to  have  intensive  living  after  this. 
Fm  going  to  enjoy  every  second,  and  Fm  going  to 
know  Fm  enjoying  it  while  Fm  enjoying  it.  Most 
people  don't  live;  they  just  race.  They  are  trying  to 
reach  some  goal  far  away  on  the  horizon,  and  in  the 
heat  of  the  going  they  get  so  breathless  and  panting 
that  they  lose  all  sight  of  the  beautiful,  tranquil  coun- 
try they  are  passing  through;  and  then  the  first  thing 
they  know,  they  are  old  and  worn  out,  and  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  whether  they've  reached  the  goal 
or  not.  Fve  decided  to  sit  down  by  the  way  and  pile 
up  a  lot  of  little  happinesses,  even  if  I  never  become  a 
Great  Author.  Did  you  ever  know  such  a  philoso- 
pheress  as  I  am  developing  into? 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  It's  raining  cats  and  dogs  to-night.  Two 
puppies  and  a  kitten  have  just  landed  on  the  window- 
siU. 


[191] 


Dear  ComradCy 

Hooray!  Vm  a  Fabian. 

That's  a  Socialist  who's  willing  to  wait.  We  don't 
want  the  social  revolution  to  come  to-morrow  morn- 
ing; it  would  be  too  upsetting.  We  want  it  to  come 
very  gradually  in  the  distant  future,  when  we  shall 
all  be  prepared  and  able  to  sustain  the  shock. 

In  the  meantime  we  must  be  getting  ready,  by  insti- 
tuting industrial,  educational  and  orphan-asylum  re- 
forms. 

Yours,  with  fraternal  love, 

Judy. 

Monday,  3d  hour. 


[ip2] 


February  11th. 
Dear  D.  L.  L., 

Don't  be  insulted  because  this  is  so  short.  It  isn't 
a  letter;  it's  just  a  line  to  say  that  I'm  going  to  write  a 
letter  pretty  soon  when  examinations  are  over.  It  is 
not  only  necessary  that  I  pass,  but  pass  WELL.  I 
have  a  scholarship  to  live  up  to. 

Yours,  studying  hard, 

J.  A. 


[^93] 


March  5th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

President  Cuyler  made  a  speech  this  evening  about 
the  modern  generation  being  flippant  and  superficial. 
He  says  that  we  are  losing  the  old  ideals  of  earnest 
endeavor  and  true  scholarship;  and  particularly  is  this 
falling-off  noticeable  in  our  disrespectful  attitude 
toward  organized  authority.  We  no  longer  pay  a 
seemly  deference  to  our  superiors. 

I  came  away  from  chapel  very  sober. 

Am  I  too  familiar,  Daddy?  Ought  I  to  treat  you 
with  more  dignity  and  aloofness? —  Yes,  Fm  sure  I 
ought.  I'll  begin  again. 

My  dear  Mr,  Smithy 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  passed  success- 
fully my  mid-year  examinations,  and  am  now  com- 
mencing work  in  the  new  semester.  I  am  leaving 
chemistry — having  completed  the  course  in  qualitative 
analysis — and  am  entering  upon  the  study  of  biology. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I  approach  this  subject  with  some  hesitation,  as  I  un- 
derstand that  we  dissect  angleworms  and  frogs. 

An  extremely  interesting  and  valuable  lecture  was 
given  in  the  chapel  last  week  upon  Roman  Remains  in 
Southern  France.  I  have  never  listened  to  a  more  il- 
luminating exposition  of  the  subject. 

We  are  reading  Wordsworth's  "Tintem  Abbey"  in 
connection  with  our  course  in  English  Literature. 
What  an  exquisite  work  it  is,  and  how  adequately  it 
embodies  his  conception  of  Pantheism!  The  Romantic 
movement  of  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  ex- 
emplified in  the  works  of  such  poets  as  Shelley,  Byron, 
Keats,  and  Wordsworth,  appeals  to  me  very  much 
more  than  the  Classical  period  that  preceded  it.  Speak- 
ing of  poetry,  have  you  ever  read  that  charming  little 
thing  of  Tennyson's  called  "Locksley  Hall"? 

I  am  attending  gymnasium  very  regularly  of  late. 
A  proctor  system  has  been  devised,  and  failure  to  com- 
ply with  the  rules  causes  a  great  deal  of  inconvenience. 
The  gymnasium  is  equipped  with  a  very  beautiful 
swimming  tank  of  cement  and  marble,  the  gift  of  a 
former  graduate.  My  room-mate,  Miss  McBride,  has 
given  me  her  bathing-suit  (it  shrank  so  that  she  can 
no  longer  wear  it)  and  I  am  about  to  begin  swimming 
lessons. 

We  had  delicious  pink  ice-cream  for  dessert  last 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

night.  Only  vegetable  dyes  are  used  in  coloring  the 
food.  The  college  is  very  much  opposed,  both  from 
esthetic  and  hygienic  motives,  to  the  use  of  aniline 
dyes. 

The  weather  of  late  has  been  ideal — ^bright  sun- 
shine and  clouds  interspersed  with  a  few  welcome 
snow-storms.  I  and  my  companions  have  enjoyed  our 
walks  to  and  from  classes — particularly  from. 

Trusting,  my  dear  Mr.  Smith,  that  this  will  find  you 
in  your  usual  good  health, 

I  remain. 
Most  cordially  yours, 

Jerusha  Abbott. 


[196] 


April  24th. 
Dear  Daddy, 

Spring  has  come  again!  You  should  see  how  lovely 
the  campus  is.  I  think  you  might  come  and  look  at  it 
for  yourself.  Master  Jervie  dropped  in  again  last  Fri- 
day— ^but  he  chose  a  most  unpropitious  time,  for  Sallie 
and  Julia  and  I  were  just  running  to  catch  a  train. 
And  where  do  you  think  we  were  going?  To  Prince- 
ton, to  attend  a  dance  and  a  ball  game,  if  you  please! 
I  didn't  ask  you  if  I  might  go,  because  I  had  a  feeling 
that  your  secretary  would  say  no.  But  it  was  entirely 
regular;  we  had  leave-of-absence  from  college,  and 
Mrs.  McBride  chaperoned  us.  We  had  a  charming 
time — ^but  I  shall  have  to  omit  details;  they  are  too 
many  and  complicated. 

Saturday. 

Up  before  dawn!  The  night  watchman  called  us — 
six  of  us — and  we  made  coffee  in  a  chafing  dish  (you 
never  saw  so  many  grounds! )  and  walked  two  miles 

[^97] 


to  the  top  of  One  Tree  Hill  to  see  the  sun  rise.  We 
had  to  scramble  up  the  last  slope!  The  sun  almost  beat 
us!  And  perhaps  you  think  we  didn't  bring  back  ap- 
petites to  breakfast! 

Dear  me,  Daddy,  I  seem  to  have  a  very  ejaculatory 
style  to-day;  this  page  is  peppered  vi^ith  exclamations. 

I  meant  to  have  written  a  lot  about  the  budding 
trees  and  the  new  cinder  path  in  the  athletic  field,  and 
the  awful  lesson  we  have  in  biology  for  to-morrow, 
and  the  new  canoes  on  the  lake,  and  Catherine  Prentiss 
who  has  pneumonia,  and  Prexy's  Angora  kitten  that 
strayed  from  home  and  has  been  boarding  in  Fergus- 

U9S] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

sen  Hall  for  two  weeks  until  a  chambermaid  reported 
it,  and  about  my  three  new  dresses — ^white  and  pink 
and  blue  polka  dots  with  a  hat  to  match — but  I  am  too 
sleepy.  I  am  always  making  this  an  excuse,  am  I  not? 
But  a  girls'  college  is  a  busy  place  and  we  do  get  tired 
by  the  end  of  the  day!  Particularly  when  the  day  be- 
gins at  dawn. 

Affectionately, 
Judy. 


/I 


This     is"R€>LVj'9 
Kitten.    V(ou  C9n  see 
f/om    the  picture  bow 


[199] 


May  15th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Is  it  good  manners  when  you  get  into  a  car  just  to 
stare  straight  ahead  and  not  see  anybody  else? 

A  very  beautiful  lady  in  a  very  beautiful  velvet 
dress  got  into  the  car  to-day,  and  without  the  slightest 
expression  sat  for  fifteen  minutes  and  looked  at  a  sign 
advertising  suspenders.  It  doesn't  seem  polite  to 
ignore  everybody  else  as  though  you  were  the  only 
important  person  present.  Anyway,  you  miss  a  lot. 
While  she  was  absorbing  that  silly  sign,  I  was  studying 
a  whole  car  full  of  interesting  human  beings. 

The  accompanying  illustration  is  hereby  repro- 
duced for  the  first  time.  It  looks  like  a  spider  on  the 
end  of  a  string,  but  it  isn't  at  all;  it's  a  picture  of  me 
learning  to  swim  in  the  tank  in  the  gymnasium. 

The  instructor  hooks  a  rope  into  a  ring  in  the  back 
of  my  belt,  and  runs  it  through  a  pulley  in  the  ceiling. 
It  would  be  a  beautiful  system  if  one  had  perfect  con- 
fidence in  the  probity  of  one's  instructor.  I'm  always 

\_200'\ 


afraid,  though,  that  she  will  let  the  rope  get  slack,  so  I 
keep  one  anxious  eye  on  her  and  swim  with  the  other, 
and  with  this  divided  interest  I  do  not  make  the  prog- 
ress that  I  otherwise  might. 

Very  miscellaneous  weather  we're  having  of  late.  It 
was  raining  when  I  commenced  and  now  the  sun  is 
shining.  Sallie  and  I  are  going  out  to  play  tennis — 
thereby  gaining  exemption  from  Gym. 


A  week  later. 

I  should  have  finished  this  letter  long  ago,  but  I 
didn't.  You  don't  mind,  do  you,  Daddy,  if  I'm  not 
very  regular?  I  really  do  love  to  write  to  you;  it  gives 
me  such  a  respectable  feeling  of  having  some  family. 
Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  something?  You  are 
not  the  only  man  to  whom  I  write  letters.  There  are 

[201] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

two  others!  I  have  been  receiving  beautiful  long 
letters  this  winter  from  Master  Jervie  (with  type- 
written envelopes  so  Julia  won't  recognize  the  writ- 
ing) .  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  shocking?  And 
every  week  or  so  a  very  scrawly  epistle,  usually  on 
yellow  tablet  paper,  arrives  from  Princeton.  All  of 
which  I  answer  with  businesslike  promptness.  So  you 
see — ^I  am  not  so  different  from  other  girls — I  get  mail, 
too. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  elected  a  member  of 
the  Senior  Dramatic  Club?  Very  recherche  organiza- 
tion. Only  seventy-five  members  out  of  one  thousand. 
Do  you  think  as  a  consistent  Socialist  that  I  ought  to 
belong? 

What  do  you  suppose  is  at  present  engaging  my  at- 
tention in  sociology?  I  am  writing  (figurez  vousl)  a 
paper  on  the  Care  of  Dependent  Children.  The  Pro- 
fessor shuffled  up  his  subjects  and  dealt  them  out 
promiscuously,  and  that  fell  to  me.  Cest  drole  ga, 
ffest  pas? 

There  goes  the  gong  for  dinner.  I'll  mail  this  as  I 
pass  the  chute. 

Affectionately, 

J- 


[202] 


June  4th. 
Dear  Daddy  ^ 

Very  busy  time — commencement  in  ten  days,  ex- 
aminations to-morrow;  lots  of  studying,  lots  of  pack- 
ing, and  the  outdoors  world  so  lovely  that  it  hurts  you 
to  stay  inside. 

But  never  mind,  vacation's  coming.  Julia  is  going 
abroad  this  summer — ^it  makes  the  fourth  time.  No 
doubt  about  it.  Daddy,  goods  are  not  distributed 
evenly.  Sallie,  as  usual,  goes  to  the  Adirondacks.  And 
what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do?  You  may  have 
three  guesses.  Lock  Willow?  Wrong.  The  Adiron- 
dacks with  Sallie?  Wrong.  (I'll  never  attempt  that 
again;  I  was  discouraged  last  year.)  Can't  you  guess 
anything  else?  You're  not  very  inventive.  I'll  tell 
you.  Daddy,  if  you'll  promise  not  to  make  a  lot  of  ob- 
jections. I  warn  your  secretary  ahead  of  time  that  my 
mind  is  made  up. 

I  am  going  to  spend  the  summer  at  the  seaside  with 
a  Mrs.  Charles  Paterson  and  tutor  her  daughter  who  is 
to  enter  college  in  the  autumn.  I  met  her  through  the 
McBrides,  and  she  is  a  very  charming  woman.  I  am 
to  give  lessons  in  English  and  Latin  to  the  younger 

[203] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

daughter,  too,  but  I  shall  have  a  little  time  to  myself, 
and  I  shall  be  earning  fifty  dollars  a  month!  Doesn't 
that  impress  you  as  a  perfectly  exorbitant  amount? 
She  offered  it;  I  should  have  blushed  to  ask  more  than 
tvi^enty-five. 

I  finish  at  Magnolia  (that's  vi^here  she  lives)  the  first 
of  September  and  shall  probably  spend  the  remaining 
three  weeks  at  Lock  Willow — I  should  like  to  see  the 
Semples  again  and  all  the  friendly  animals. 

How  does  my  program  strike  you,  Daddy?  I  am 
getting  quite  independent,  you  see.  You  have  put  me 
on  my  feet  and  I  think  I  can  almost  walk  alone  by 
now. 

Princeton  commencement  and  our  examinations 
exactly  coincide — ^which  is  an  awful  blow.  Sallie  and 
I  did  so  want  to  get  away  in  time  for  it,  but  of  course 
that  is  utterly  impossible. 

Good-by,  Daddy.  Have  a  nice  summer  and  come 
back  in  the  autumn  rested  and  ready  for  another  year 
of  work.  (That's  what  you  ought  to  be  writing  to 
me! )  I  haven't  an  idea  what  you  do  in  the  summer,  or 
how  you  amuse  yourself.  I  can't  visualize  your  sur- 
roundings. Do  you  play  golf  or  hunt  or  ride  horse- 
back or  just  sit  in  the  sun  and  meditate? 

Anyway,  whatever  it  is,  have  a  good  time  and  don't 
forget  Judy. 

[204] 


June  Tenth. 
Dear  Daddy, 

This  is  the  hardest  letter  I  ever  wrote,  but  I  have  de- 
cided what  I  must  do,  and  there  isn't  going  to  be  any- 
turning  back.  It  is  very  sweet  and  generous  and  dear 
of  you  to  wish  to  send  me  to  Europe  this  summer — for 
the  moment  I  was  intoxicated  by  the  idea;  but  sober 
second  thoughts  said  no.  It  would  be  rather  illogical 
of  me  to  refuse  to  take  your  money  for  college,  and 
then  use  it  instead  just  for  amusement!  You  mustn't 
get  me  used  to  too  many  luxuries.  One  doesn't  miss 
what  one  has  never  had;  but  it  is  awfully  hard  going 
without  things  after  one  has  commenced  thinking 
they  are  his — hers  (English  language  needs  another 
pronoun)  by  natural  right.  Living  with  Sallie  and 
Julia  is  an  awful  strain  on  my  stoical  philosophy. 
They  have  both  had  things  from  the  time  they  were 
babies;  they  accept  happiness  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  World,  they  think,  owes  them  everything  they 
want.  Maybe  the  World  does — ^in  any  case,  it  seems 
to  acknov/ledge  the  debt  and  pay  up.  But  as  for  me, 
it  owes  me  nothing  and  distinctly  told  me  so  in  the 

[20^] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

beginning.  I  have  no  right  to  borrow  on  credit,  for 
there  will  come  a  time  when  the  World  will  repudiate 
my  claim. 

I  seem  to  be  floundering  in  a  sea  of  metaphor — ^but 
I  hope  you  grasp  my  meaning?  Anyway,  I  have  a 
very  strong  feeling  that  the  only  honest  thing  for  me 
to  do  is  to  teach  this  summer  and  begin  to  support 
myself. 

Magnolia,    * 
Four  days  later. 

I'd  got  just  that  much  written,  when — what  do  you 
think  happened?  The  maid  arrived  with  Master 
Jervie's  card.  He  is  going  abroad  too  this  summer;  not 
with  Julia  and  her  family  but  entirely  by  himself.  I 
told  him  that  you  had  invited  me  to  go  with  a  lady 
who  is  chaperoning  a  party  of  girls.  He  knows  about 
you,  Daddy.  That  is,  he  knows  that  my  father  and 
mother  are  dead,  and  that  a  kind  gentleman  is  sending 
me  to  college;  I  simply  didn't  have  the  courage  to  tell 
him  about  the  John  Grier  Home  and  all  the  rest.  He 
thinks  that  you  are  my  guardian  and  a  perfectly  legiti- 
mate old  family  friend.  I  have  never  told  him  that  I 
didn't  know  you — ^that  would  seem  too  queer! 

Anyway,  he  insisted  on  my  going  to  Europe.  He 
said  that  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  my  education  and 

[206] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

that  I  mustn't  think  of  refusing.  Also,  that  he  would 
be  in  Paris  at  the  same  time,  and  that  we  would  run 
away  from  the  chaperon  occasionally  and  have  dinner 
together  at  nice,  funny,  foreign  restaurants. 

Well,  Daddy,  it  did  appeal  to  me!  I  almost  weak- 
ened; if  he  hadn't  been  so  dictatorial,  maybe  I  should 
have  entirely  weakened.  I  can  be  enticed  step  by  step, 
but  I  nvofft  be  forced.  He  said  I  was  a  silly,  foolish,  ir- 
rational, quixotic,  idiotic,  stubborn  child  (those  are  a 
few  of  his  abusive  adjectives;  the  rest  escape  me)  and 
that  I  didn't  know  what  was  good  for  me;  I  ought  to 
let  older  people  judge.  We  almost  quarreled — -I  am 
not  sure  but  that  we  entirely  did! 

In  any  case,  I  packed  my  trunk  fast  and  came  up 
here.  I  thought  I'd  better  see  my  bridges  in  flames 
behind  m.e  before  I  finished  writing  to  you.  They  are 
entirely  reduced  to  ashes  now.  Here  I  am  at  Cliff 
Top  (the  name  of  Mrs.  Paterson's  cottage)  with  my 
trunk  unpacked  and  Florence  (the  little  one)  already 
struggling  with  first  declension  nouns.  And  it  bids 
fair  to  be  a  struggle!  She  is  a  most  uncommonly 
spoiled  child;  I  shall  have  to  teach  her  first  how  to 
study — she  has  never  in  her  life  concentrated  on  any- 
thing more  difficult  than  ice-cream  soda  water. 

We  use  a  quiet  corner  of  the  cliffs  for  a  schoolroom 
— Mrs.  Paterson  wishes  me  to  keep  them  out  of  doors 

[20J] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

— and  I  will  say  that  1  find  it  difficult  to  concentrate 
with  the  blue  sea  before  me  and  ships  a-sailing  by! 
And  when  I  think  I  might  be  on  one,  sailing  off  to 
foreign  lands — but  I  "wofi^t  let  myself  think  of  any- 
thing but  Latin  Grammar. 

The  prepositions  a  or  ab,  absque,  coram,  cum,  de,  e 
or  ex,  prae,  pro,  sine,  tenus,  in,  subter,  sub  and  super 
govern  the  ablative. 

So  you  see.  Daddy,  I  am  already  plunged  into  work 
with  my  eyes  persistently  set  against  temptation. 
Don't  be  cross  with  me,  please,  and  don't  think  that 
I  do  not  appreciate  your  kindness,  for  I  do — always — 
always.  The  only  way  I  can  ever  repay  you  is  by 
turning  out  a  Very  Useful  Citizen  (Are  women  citi- 
zens? I  don't  suppose  they  are).  Anyway,  a  Very 
Useful  Person.  And  when  you  look  at  me  you  can 
say,  *'I  gave  that  Very  Useful  Person  to  the  world." 

That  sounds  well,  doesn't  it.  Daddy!  But  I  don't 
wish  to  mislead  you.  The  feeling  often  comes  over 
me  that  I  am  not  at  all  remarkable;  it  is  fun  to  plan 
a  career,  but  in  all  probabiHty,  I  shan't  turn  out  a  bit 
different  from  any  other  ordinary  person.  I  may  end 
by  marrying  an  undertaker  and  being  an  inspiration 
to  him  in  his  work. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

[208] 


August  19th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

My  window  looks  out  on  the  loveliest  landscape — 
ocean-scape  rather — nothing  but  water  and  rocks. 

The  summer  goes.  I  spend  the  morning  with  Latin 
and  English  and  Algebra  and  my  two  stupid  girls.  I 
don't  know  how  Marion  is  ever  going  to  get  into 
college,  or  stay  in  after  she  gets  there.  And  as  for 
Florence,  she  is  hopeless — but  oh!  such  a  little  beauty. 
I  don't  suppose  it  matters  in  the  least  whether  they  are 
stupid  or  not  so  long  as  they  are  pretty?  One  can't 
help  thinking  though,  how  their  conversation  will 
bore  their  husbands,  unless  they  are  fortunate  enough 
to  obtain  stupid  husbands.  I  suppose  that's  quite  pos- 
sible; the  world  seems  to  be  filled  with  stupid  men; 
I've  met  a  number  this  summer. 

In  the  afternoon  we  take  a  walk  on  the  cliffs,  or 
swim,  if  the  tide  is  right.  I  can  swim  in  salt  water 
with  the  utmost  ease — ^you  see  my  education  is  already 
being  put  to  use! 

[209] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

A  letter  comes  from  Mr.  Jervis  Pendleton  in  Paris, 
rather  a  short,  concise  letter;  I'm  not  quite  forgiven 
yet  for  refusing  to  follow  his  advice.  However,  if 
he  gets  back  in  time,  he  will  see  me  for  a  few  days 
at  Lock  Willow  before  college  opens,  and  if  I  am 
very  nice  and  sweet  and  docile,  I  shall  (I  am  led  to 
infer)  be  received  into  favor  again. 

Also  a  letter  from  Sallie.  She  wants  me  to  come  to 
their  camp  for  two  weeks  in  September.  Must  I  ask 
your  permission,  or  haven't  I  yet  arrived  at  the  place 
where  I  can  do  as  I  please?  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  have — 
I'm  a  Senior,  you  know.  Having  worked  all  summer, 
I  feel  like  taking  a  Httle  healthful  recreation;  I  want 
to  see  the  Adirondacks;  I  want  to  see  Sallie;  I  want 
to  see  Sallie's  brother — he's  going  to  teach  me  to  canoe 
— ^and  (we  come  to  my  chief  motive,  which  is  mean) 
I  want  Master  Jervie  to  arrive  at  Lock  Willow  and 
find  me  not  there. 

I  frmst  show  him  that  he  can't  dictate  to  me.  No 
one  can  dictate  to  me  but  you,  Daddy — and  you  can't 
always!   I'm  off  for  the  woods. 

Judy. 


[2101 


Dear  Daddy, 


Camp  McBride, 
September  6th. 


Your  letter  didn't  come  in  time  (I  am  pleased  to 
say).  If  you  wish  your  instructions  to  be  obeyed,  you 
must  have  your  secretary  transmit  them  in  less  than 
two  weeks.  As  you  observe,  I  am  here,  and  have  been 
for  five  days. 

The  woods  are  fine,  and  so  is  the  camp,  and  so  is 
the  weather,  and  so  are  the  McBrides,  and  so  is  the 
whole  world.  Fm  very  happy! 

There's  Jimmie  calling  for  me  to  come  canoeing. 
Good-by — sorry  to  have  disobeyed,  but  why  are  you 
so  persistent  about  not  wanting  me  to  play  a  Httle? 
When  I've  worked  all  summer  I  deserve  two  weeks. 
You  are  awfully  dog-in-the-mangerish. 

However — I  love  you  still,  Daddy,  in  spite  of  al] 
your  faults. 

Judy. 

[211] 


October  3rd. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Back  at  college  and  a  Senior — also  editor  of  the 
Monthly,  It  doesn't  seem  possible,  does  it,  that  so 
sophisticated  a  person,  just  four  years  ago,  was  an  in- 
mate of  the  John  Grier  Home?  We  do  arrive  fast  in 
America! 

What  do  you  think  of  this?  A  note  from  Master 
Jervie  directed  to  Lock  Willow  and  forwarded  here. 
He's  sorry  but  he  finds  that  he  can't  get  up  there  this 
autumn;  he  has  accepted  an  invitation  to  go  yachting 
with  some  friends.  Hopes  I've  had  a  nice  summer  and 
am  enjoying  the  country. 

And  he  knew  all  the  time  that  I  was  with  the 
McBrides,  for  Julia  told  him  so!  You  men  ought  to 
leave  intrigue  to  women;  you  haven't  a  light  enough 
touch. 

JuHa  has  a  trunkful  of  the  most  ravishing  new 
clothes — an  evenmg  gown  of  rainbow  Liberty  crepe 
that  would  be  fitting  raiment  for  the  angels  in  Para- 

[212] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

disc.  And  I  thought  that  my  own  clothes  this  year 
were  unprecedentedly  (is  there  such  a  word? )  beauti- 
ful. I  copied  Mrs.  Paterson's  wardrobe  with  the  aid 
of  a  cheap  dressmaker,  and  though  the  gowns  didn't 
turn  out  quite  twins  of  the  originals,  I  was  entirely 
happy  until  Julia  unpacked.  But  now — ^I  live  to  see 
Paris! 

Dear  Daddy,  aren't  you  glad  you're  not  a  girl?  I 
suppose  you  think  that  the  fuss  we  make  over  clothes 
is  too  absolutely  silly?  It  is.  No  doubt  about  it.  But 
it's  entirely  your  fault. 

Did  you  ever  hear  about  the  learned  Herr  Professor 
who  regarded  unnecessary  adornment  with  contempt, 
and  favored  sensible,  utilitarian  clothes  for  women? 
His  wife,  who  was  an  obliging  creature,  adopted 
"dress  reform."  And  what  do  you  think  he  did?  He 
eloped  with  a  chorus  girl. 

Yours  ever, 

Judy. 

P.S.  The  chamber-maid  on  our  corridor  wears  blue 
checked  gingham  aprons.  I  am  going  to  get  her  some 
brown  ones  instead,  and  sink  the  blue  ones  in  the 
bottom  of  the  lake.  I  have  a  reminiscent  chill  every 
time  I  look  at  them. 


November  17th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Such  a  blight  has  fallen  over  my  literary  career. 
I  don't  know  whether  to  tell  you  or  not,  but  I  would 
like  some  sympathy — silent  sympathy,  please;  don't 
reopen  the  wound  by  referring  to  it  in  your  next 
letter. 

I've  been  writing  a  book,  all  last  winter  in  the  eve- 
nings, and  all  summer  when  I  wasn't  teaching  Latin  to 
my  two  stupid  children.  I  just  finished  it  before  col- 
lege opened  and  sent  it  to  a  publisher.  He  kept  it  two 
months  and  I  was  certain  he  was  going  to  take  it;  but 
yesterday  morning  an  express  parcel  came  (thirty 
cents  due)  and  there  it  was  back  again  with  a  letter 
from  the  publisher,  a  very  nice,  fatherly  letter — ^but 
frank!  He  said  he  saw  from  the  address  that  I  was 
still  in  college,  and  if  I  would  accept  some  advice,  he 
would  suggest  that  I  put  all  of  my  energy  into  my 
lessons  and  wait  until  I  graduated  before  beginning  to 
write.  He  enclosed  his  reader's  opinion.  Here  it  is: 

"Plot  highly  improbable.  Characterization  exag- 
gerated. Conversation  unnatural.  A  good  deal  of  hu- 
mor but  not  always  in  the  best  of  taste.  Tell  her  to 
keep  on  trying,  and  in  time  she  may  produce  a  real 
book." 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Not  on  the  whole  flattering,  is  it,  Daddy?  And  I 
thought  I  was  making  a  notable  addition  to  American 
literature,  I  did  truly.  I  v/as  planning  to  surprise  you 
by  writing  a  great  novel  before  I  graduated.  I  col- 
lected the  material  for  it  while  I  was  at  Julia's  last 
Christmas.  But  I  dare  say  the  editor  is  right.  Probably 
two  weeks  was  not  enough  in  which  to  observe  the 
manners  and  customs  of  a  great  city. 

I  took  it  walking  with  me  yesterday  afternoon,  and 
when  I  came  to  the  gas  house,  I  went  in  and  asked  the 
engineer  if  I  might  borrow  his  furnace.  He  politely 
opened  the  door,  and  with  my  own  hands  I  chucked  it 
in.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  cremated  my  only  child! 

I  went  to  bed  last  night  utterly  dejected;  I  thought 
I  was  never  going  to  amount  to  anything,  and  that 
you  had  thrown  away  your  money  for  nothing.  But 
what  do  you  think?  I  woke  up  this  morning  with  a 
beautiful  new  plot  in  my  head,  and  Fve  been  going 
about  all  day  planning  my  characters,  just  as  happy 
as  I  could  be.  No  one  can  ever  accuse  me  of  being  a 
pessimist!  If  I  had  a  husband  and  twelve  children 
swallowed  by  an  earthquake  one  day,  Fd  bob  up 
smiUngly  the  next  morning  and  commence  to  look 
for  another  set. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


December  14th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

I  dreamed  the  funniest  dream  last  night.  I  thought 
I  went  into  a  book  store  and  the  clerk  brought  me  a 
new  book  named  "The  Life  and  Letters  of  Judy  Ab- 
bott." I  could  see  it  perfectly  plainly — ^red  cloth  bind- 
ing with  a  picture  of  the  John  Grier  Home  on  the 
cover,  and  my  portrait  for  a  frontispiece  with,  "Very 
truly  yours,  Judy  Abbott,"  written  below.  But  just 
as  I  was  turning  to  the  end  to  read  the  inscription  on 
my  tombstone,  I  woke  up.  It  was  very  annoying! 
I  almost  found  out  who  Fm  going  to  marry  and  when 
Fm  going  to  die. 

Don't  you  think  it  would  be  interesting  if  you  really 
could  read  the  story  of  your  life — ^written  perfectly 
truthfully  by  an  omniscient  author?  And  suppose  you 
could  only  read  it  on  this  condition:  that  you  would 
never  forget  it,  but  would  have  to  go  through  life 
knowing  ahead  of  time  exactly  how  everything  you 
did  would  turn  out,  and  foreseeing  to  the  exact  hour 
the  time  when  you  would  die.  How  many  people  do 

[216] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

you  suppose  would  have  the  courage  to  read  it  then? 
Or  how  many  could  suppress  their  curiosity  suffi- 
ciently to  escape  from  reading  it,  even  at  the  price 
of  having  to  live  without  hope  and  without  surprises? 

Life  is  monotonous  enough  at  best;  you  have  to  eat 
and  sleep  about  so  often.  But  imagine  how  deadly 
monotonous  it  would  be  if  nothing  unexpected  could 
happen  between  meals.  Mercy!  Daddy,  there's  a  blot, 
but  Fm  on  the  third  page  and  I  can't  begin  a  new 
sheet. 

I'm  going  on  with  biology  again  this  year — ^very 
interesting  subject;  we're  studying  the  aHmentary  sys- 
tem at  present.  You  should  see  how  sweet  a  cross- 
section  of  the  duodenum  of  a  cat  is  under  the  micro- 
scope. 

Also  we've  arrived  at  philosophy — ^interesting  but 
evanescent.  I  prefer  biology  where  you  can  pin  the 
subject  under  discussion  to  a  board.  There's  another! 
And  another!  This  pen  is  weeping  copiously.  Please 
excuse  its  tears. 

Do  you  believe  in  free  will?  I  do — ^unreservedly. 
I  don't  agree  at  all  with  the  philosophers  who  think 
that  every  action  is  the  absolutely  inevitable  and  auto- 
matic resultant  of  an  aggregation  of  remote  causes. 
That's  the  most  immoral  doctrine  I  ever  heard — ^no- 
bodv  would  be  to  blame  for  anything.  If  a  man  be- 

[2iy] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

lieved  in  fatalism,  he  would  naturally  just  sit  down 
and  say,  "The  Lord's  will  be  done,"  and  continue  to 
sit  until  he  fell  over  dead. 

I  believe  absolutely  in  my  own  free  will  and  my 
own  power  to  accomplish — and  that  is  the  belief  that 
moves  mountains.  You  watch  me  become  a  great 
author!  I  have  four  chapters  of  my  new  book  finished 
and  Evt  more  drafted. 

This  is  a  very  abstruse  letter — does  your  head  ache, 
Daddy?  I  think  we'll  stop  now  and  make  some  fudge. 
I'm  sorry  I  can't  send  you  a  piece;  it  will  be  unusually 
good,  for  we're  going  to  make  it  with  real  cream  and 
three  butter  balls. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Judy. 

-     -    ^/ 

P.  S.  We're  having  fancy  dancing  in  gymnasium 
class.  You  can  see  by  the  accompanying  picture  how 
much  we  look  like  a  real  ballet.  The  one  on  the  end 
accompHshing  a  graceful  pirouette  is  me — I  mean  L 

[218] 


December  26th. 

My  dear,  dear  Daddy 

Haven't  you  any  sense?  Don't  you  know  that  you 
mustn't  give  one  girl  seventeen  Christmas  presents? 
I'm  a  SociaHst,  please  remember;  do  you  wish  to  turn 
me  into  a  Plutocrat? 

Think  how  embarrassing  it  would  be  if  we  should 
ever  quarrel!  I  should  have  to  engage  a  moving  van 
to  return  your  gifts. 


d 


VAN 


I  am  sorry  that  the  necktie  I  sent  was  so  wobbly; 
I  knit  it  with  my  own  hands  (as  you  doubtless  dis- 
covered from  internal  evidence).  You  will  have  to 
wear  it  on  cold  days  and  keep  your  coat  buttoned  up 
tight. 

[2ip] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Thank  you,  Daddy,  a  thousand  times.  I  think 
you're  the  sweetest  man  that  ever  lived — ^and  the  f ool- 
ishest! 

Judy. 

Here's  a  four-leaf  clover  from  Camp  McBride  to 
bring  you  good  luck  for  the  New  Year. 


f  220] 


January  9th. 

Do  you  wish  to  do  something,  Daddy,  that  will 
insure  your  eternal  salvation?  There  is  a  family  here 
who  are  in  awfully  desperate  straits.  A  mother  and 
father  and  four  visible  children — the  two  older  boys 
have  disappeared  into  the  world  to  make  their  fortune 
and  have  not  sent  any  of  it  back.  The  father  worked 
in  a  glass  factory  and  got  consumption — it's  awfully 
unhealthy  work — and  now  has  been  sent  away  to  a 
hospital.  That  took  all  of  their  savings,  and  the  sup- 
port of  the  family  falls  upon  the  oldest  daughter  who 
is  twenty-four.  She  dressmakes  for  $1.50  a  day  (when 
she  can  get  it)  and  embroiders  centerpieces  in  the  eve- 
ning. The  mother  isn't  very  strong  and  is  extremely 
ineffectual  and  pious.  She  sits  with  her  hands  folded, 
a  picture  of  patient  resignation,  while  the  daughter 
kills  herself  with  overwork  and  responsibility  and 
worry;  she  doesn't  see  how  they  are  going  to  get 
through  the  rest  of  the  winter — and  I  don't  either. 
One  hundred  dollars  would  buy  some  coal  and  some 

[227] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

shoes  for  the  three  children  so  that  they  could  go  to 
school,  and  give  a  little  margin  so  that  she  needn't 
worry  herself  to  death  when  a  few  days  pass  and  she 
doesn't  get  work. 

You  are  the  richest  man  I  know.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose you  could  spare  one  hundred  dollars?  That  girl 
deserves  help  a  lot  more  than  I  ever  did.  I  wouldn't 
ask  it  except  for  the  girl;  I  don't  care  much  what  hap- 
pens to  the  mother — she  is  such  a  jelly-fish. 

The  way  people  are  forever  rolling  their  eyes  to 
heaven  and  saying,  "Perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best," 
when  they  are  perfectly  dead  sure  it's  not,  makes  me 
enraged.  Humility  or  resignation  or  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  it,  is  simply  impotent  inertia.  I'm  for 
a  more  militant  religion! 

We  are  getting  the  most  dreadful  lessons  in  philoso- 
phy— all  of  Schopenhauer  for  to-morrow.  The  pro- 
fessor doesn't  seem  to  realize  that  we  are  taking  any 
other  subject.  He's  a  queer  old  duck;  he  goes  about 
with  his  head  in  the  clouds  and  blinks  dazedly  when 
occasionally  he  strikes  solid  earth.  He  tries  to  lighten 
his  lectures  with  an  occasional  witticism — and  we  do 
our  best  to  smile,  but  I  assure  you  his  jokes  are  no 
laughing  matter.  He  spends  his  entire  time  between 
classes  in  trying  to  figure  out  whether  matter  really 
exists  or  whether  he  only  thinks  it  exists. 

[222] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Vm  sure  my  sewing  girl  hasn't  any  doubt  but  that 
it  exists! 

Where  do  you  think  my  new  novel  is?  In  the  waste 
basket.  I  can  see  myself  that  it's  no  good  on  earth,  and 
when  a  loving  author  realizes  that,  what  "would  be  the 
judgment  of  a  critical  public? 

Later. 

I  address  you,  Daddy,  from  a  bed  of  pain.  For  two 
days  I've  been  laid  up  with  swollen  tonsils;  I  can  just 
swallow  hot  milk,  and  that  is  all.  "What  were  your 
parents  thinking  of  not  to  have  those  tonsils  out  when 
you  were  a  baby?"  the  doctor  wished  to  know.  I'm 
sure  I  haven't  an  idea,  but  I  doubt  if  they  were  think- 
ing much  about  me. 

Yours, 
J.  A. 
Next  morning. 

I  just  read  this  over  before  sealing  it.  I  don't  know 
lohy  I  cast  such  a  misty  atmosphere  over  life.  I  hasten 
to  assure  you  that  I  am  young  and  happy  and  exuber- 
ant; and  I  trust  you  are  the  same.  Youth  has  nothing 
to  do  with  birthdays,  only  with  alivedness  of  spirit, 
so  even  if  your  hair  is  gray.  Daddy,  you  can  still  be 
a  bo}^-. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 
[223.] 


Jan.  12th. 
Dear  Mr,  Philanthropist, 

Your  check  for  my  family  came  yesterday.  Thank 
you  so  much!  I  cut  gymnasium  and  took  it  down  to 
them  right  after  luncheon,  and  you  should  have  seen 
the  girl's  face!  She  was  so  surprised  and  happy  and 
relieved  that  she  looked  almost  young;  and  she's  only 
twenty-four.  Isn't  it  pitiful? 

Anyway,  she  feels  now  as  though  all  the  good 
things  were  coming  together.  She  has  steady  work 
ahead  for  two  months — some  one's  getting  married, 
and  there's  a  trousseau  to  make. 

"Thank  the  good  Lord!"  cried  the  mother,  when 
she  grasped  the  fact  that  that  small  piece  of  paper  was 
one  hundred  dollars. 

"It  wasn't  the  good  Lord  at  all,"  said  I,  "it  was 
Daddy-Long-Legs."  (Mr.  Smith,  I  called  you.) 

"But  it  was  the  good  Lord  who  put  it  in  his  mind," 
said  she. 

"Not  at  all!   I  put  it  in  his  mind  myself,"  said  L 

But  anyway,  Daddy,  I  trust  the  good  Lord  will 
reward  you  suitably.  You  deserve  ten  thousand  years 
out  of  purgatory. 

Yours  most  gratefully, 

Judy  Abbott. 

[22^] 


Feb.   15  th. 

May  it  please  Your  Most  Excellent  Majesty: 

This  morning  I  did  eat  my  breakfast  upon  a  cold 
turkey  pie  and  a  goose,  and  I  did  send  for  a  cup  of  tee 
(a  china  drink)  of  which  I  had  never  drank  before. 

Don't  be  nervous,  Daddy — I  haven't  lost  my  mind; 
I'm  merely  quoting  Sam'l  Pepys.  We're  reading  him 
in  connection  with  English  History,  original  sources. 
Sallie  and  Julia  and  I  converse  now  in  the  language  of 
1660.  Listen  to  this: 

"I  went  to  Charing  Cross  to  see  Major  Harrison 
hanged,  drawn  and  quartered:  he  looking  as  cheerful 
as  any  man  could  do  in  that  condition."  And  this: 
"Dined  with  my  lady  who  is  in  handsome  mourning 
for  her  brother  who  died  yesterday  of  spotted  fever." 

Seems  a  little  early  to  commence  entertaining, 
doesn't  it?  A  friend  of  Pepys  devised  a  very  cunning 
manner  whereby  the  king  might  pay  his  debts  out  of 
the  sale  to  poor  people  of  old  decayed  provisions. 
What  do  you,  a  reformer,  think  of  that?    I  don't  be- 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

lieve  we're  so  bad  to-day  as  the  newspapers  make  out. 

Samuel  was  as  excited  about  his  clothes  as  any  girl; 
he  spent  five  times  as  much  on  dress  as  his  wife — 
that  appears  to  have  been  the  Golden  Age  of  hus- 
bands. Isn't  this  a  touching  entry?  You  see  he  really 
was  honest.  "To-day  came  home  my  fine  Camlett 
cloak  with  gold  buttons,  which  cost  me  much  money, 
and  I  pray  God  to  make  me  able  to  pay  for  it." 

Excuse  me  for  being  so  full  of  Pepys;  I'm  writing 
a  special  topic  on  him. 

What  do  you  think.  Daddy?  The  Self-Govem- 
ment  Association  has  abolished  the  ten-o'clock  rule. 
We  can  keep  our  lights  all  night  if  we  choose,  the 
only  requirement  being  that  we  do  not  disturb  others 
— ^we  are  not  supposed  to  entertain  on  a  large  scale. 
The  result  is  a  beautiful  commentary  on  human  na- 
ture. Now  that  we  may  stay  up  as  long  as  we  choose, 
we  no  longer  choose.  Our  heads  begin  to  nod  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  by  nine-thirty  the  pen  drops  from  our 
nerveless  ^rasp.  It's  nine-thirty  now.  Good  night. 

Sunday. 

Just  back  from  church — ^preacher  from  Georgia. 
We  must  take  care,  he  says,  not  to  develop  our  intel- 
lects at  the  expense  of  our  emotional  natures — ^but  me- 
thought  it  was  a  poor,  dry  sermon  (Pepys  again).  It 

[226] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

doesn't  matter  what  part  of  the  United  States  or 
Canada  they  come  from,  or  what  denomination  they 
are  we  always  get  the  same  sermon.  Why  on  earth 
don't  they  go  to  men's  colleges  and  urge  the  students 
not  to  allow  their  manly  natures  to  be  crushed  out  by 
too  much  mental  application? 

It's  a  beautiful  day — frozen  and  icy  and  clear.  As 
soon  as  dinner  is  over,  Sallie  and  Julia  and  Marty 
Keen  and  Eleanor  Pratt  (friends  of  mine,  but  you 
don't  know  them)  and  I  are  going  to  put  on  short 
skirts  and  walk  'cross  country  to  Crystal  Spring  Farm 
and  have  a  fried  chicken  and  waffle  supper,  and  then 
have  Mr.  Crystal  Spring  drive  us  home  in  his  buck- 
board.  We  are  supposed  to  be  inside  the  campus  at 
seven,  but  we  are  going  to  stretch  a  point  to-night  and 
make  it  eight. 

Farewell,  kind  Sir. 

I  have  the  honour  of  subscribing  myself, 

Your  most  loyall,  dutifull,  faithfuU  and  obedient 
servant, 

J.  Abbott. 


[227] 


March  5th. 
Dear  Mr.  Trustee, 

To-morrow  is  the  first  Wednesday  in  the  month — 
a  weary  day  for  the  John  Grier  Home.  How  relieved 
they'll  be  when  five  o'clock  comes  and  you  pat  them 
on  the  head  and  take  yourselves  off!  Did  you  (in- 
dividually) ever  pat  me  on  the  head,  Daddy?  I  don't 
believe  so — my  memory  seems  to  be  concerned  only 
with  fat  Trustees. 

Give  the  Home  my  love,  please — ^my  truly  love.  I 
have  quite  a  feeling  of  tenderness  for  it  as  I  look  back 
through  a  haze  of  four  years.  When  I  first  came  to 
college  I  felt  quite  resentful  because  I'd  been  robbed 
of  the  normal  kind  of  childhood  that  the  other  girls 
had  had;  but  now,  I  don't  feel  that  way  in  the  least. 
I  regard  it  as  a  very  unusual  adventure.  It  gives  me 
a  sort  of  vantage  point  from  which  to  stand  aside  and 
look  at  life.  Emerging  full  grown,  I  get  a  perspective 
on  the  world,  that  other  people  who  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  thick  of  things,  entirely  lack. 

[228] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

I  know  lots  of  girls  (Julia,  for  instance)  who  never 
know  that  they  are  happy.  They  are  so  accustomed 
to  the  feeling  that  their  senses  are  deadened  to  it,  but 
as  for  me — I  am  perfectly  sure  every  moment  of  my 
life  that  I  am  happy.  And  Fm  going  to  keep  on  being, 
no  matter  what  unpleasant  things  turn  up.  Fm  going 
to  regard  them  (even  toothaches)  as  interesting  ex- 
periences, and  be  glad  to  know  what  they  feel  like. 
"Whatever  sky's  above  me,  Fve  a  heart  for  any  fate." 

However,  Daddy,  don't  take  this  new  affection  for 
the  J.  G.  H.  too  literally.  If  I  have  five  children,  like 
Rousseau,  I  shan't  leave  them  on  the  steps  of  a  found- 
ling asylum  in  order  to  insure  their  being  brought  up 
simply. 

Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Lippett  (that,  I 
think,  is  truthful;  love  would  be  a  little  strong)  and 
don't  forget  to  tell  her  what  a  beautiful  nature  Fve 
developed. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 


[22p] 


Lock  Willow. 

April  4th. 
Dear  Daddy  ^ 

Do  you  observe  the  postmark?  Sallie  and  I  are  em- 
bellishing Lock  Willow  with  our  presence  during  the 
Easter  vacation.  We  decided  that  the  best  thing  we 
could  do  with  our  ten  days  was  to  come  where  it  is 
quiet.  Our  nerves  had  got  to  the  point  where  they 
wouldn't  stand  another  meal  in  Fergussen.  Dining  in 
a  room  with  four  hundred  girls  is  an  ordeal  when  you 
are  tired.  There  is  so  much  noise  that  you  can't  hear 
the  girls  across  the  table  speak  unless  they  make  their 
hands  into  a  megaphone  and  shout.  That  is  the  truth. 

We  are  tramping  over  the  hills  and  reading  and 
writing,  and  having  a  nice,  restful  time.  We  climbed 
to  the  top  of  "Sky  Hill"  this  morning  where  Master 
Jervie  and  I  once  cooked  supper — it  doesn't  seem 
possible  that  it  was  nearly  two  years  ago.  I  could  still 
see  the  place  where  the  smoke  of  our  fire  blackened 
the  rock.  It  is  funny  how  certain  places  get  connected 
with  certain  people,  and  you  never  go  back  without 
thinking  of  them.  I  was  quite  lonely  without  him — 
for  two  minutes. 

[230] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

What  do  you  think  is  my  latest  activity,  Daddy? 
You  will  begin  to  believe  that  I  am  incorrigible — I 
am  writing  a  book.  I  started  it  three  weeks  ago  and 
am  eating  it  up  in  chunks.  I've  caught  the  secret. 
Master  Jervie  and  that  editor  man  were  right;  you  are 
most  convincing  when  you  write  about  the  things 
you  know.  And  this  time  it  is  about  something  that  I 
do  know — exhaustively.  Guess  where  it's  laid?  In  the 
John  Grier  Home!  And  it's  good,  Daddy,  I  actually 
believe  it  is — just  about  the  tiny  little  things  that 
happened  every  day.  I'm  a  realist  now.  I've  aban- 
doned romanticism;  I  shall  go  back  to  it  later  though, 
when  my  own  adventurous  future  begins. 

This  new  book  is  going  to  get  itself  finished — and 
published!  You  see  if  it  doesn't.  If  you  just  want  a 
thing  hard  enough  and  keep  on  trying,  you  do  get  it 
in  the  end.  I've  been  trying  for  four  years  to  get  a 
letter  from  you — and  I  haven't  given  up  hope  yet. 

Good-by,  Daddy  dear. 

(I  like  to  call  you  Daddy  dear;  it's  so  alliterative.) 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  farm  news,  but  it's 
very  distressing.  Skip  this  postscript  if  you  don't  want 
your  sensibilities  all  wrought  up. 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Poor  old  Grove  is  dead.  He  got  so  he  couldn't 
chew  and  they  had  to  shoot  him. 

Nine  chickens  were  killed  by  a  weasel  or  a  skunk 
or  a  rat  last  week. 

One  of  the  cows  is  sick,  and  we  had  to  have  the 
veterinary  surgeon  out  from  Bonnyrigg  Four  Cor- 
ners. Amasai  stayed  up  all  night  to  give  her  linseed 
oil  and  whisky.  But  we  have  an  awful  suspicion  that 
the  poor  sick  cow  got  nothing  but  linseed  oil. 

Sentimental  Tommy  (the  tortoise-shell  cat)  has  dis- 
appeared; we  are  afraid  he  has  been  caught  in  a  trap. 

There  are  lots  of  troubles  in  the  world! 


[232] 


May   17th. 
Dear  Daddy -Lo?ig-Legs, 

This  is  going  to  be  extremely  short  because  my 
shoulder  aches  at  the  sight  of  a  pen.  Lecture  notes  all 
day,  immortal  novel  all  evening  makes  too  much  writ- 
ing. 

Commencement  three  weeks  from  next  Wednes- 
day. I  think  you  might  come  and  make  my  acquaint- 
ance— I  shall  hate  you  if  you  don't!  Julia's  inviting 
Master  Jervie,  he  being  her  family,  and  SaHie's  in- 
viting Jimmie  McB.,  he  being  her  family,  but  who  is 
there  for  me  to  invite?  Just  you  and  Mrs.  Lippett, 
and  I  don't  want  her.  Please  come. 

Yours,  with  love  and  writer's  cramp. 

Judy. 


[^33] 


Lock  Willow. 

June   19th. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Tm  educated!  My  diploma  is  in  the  bottom  bureau 
drawer  with  my  two  best  dresses.  Commencement 
was  as  usual,  with  a  few  showers  at  vital  moments. 
Thank  you  for  your  rosebuds.  They  were  lovely. 
Master  Jervie  and  Master  Jimmie  both  gave  me  roses, 
too,  but  I  left  theirs  in  the  bath  tub  and  carried  yours 
in  the  class  procession. 

Here  I  am  at  Lock  Willow  for  the  summer — ^for- 
ever maybe.  The  board  is  cheap;  the  surroundings 
quiet  and  conducive  to  a  literary  life.  What  more  does 
a  struggling  author  wish?  I  am  mad  about  my  book. 
I  think  of  it  every  waking  moment,  and  dream  of  it 
at  night.  All  I  want  is  peace  and  quiet  and  lots  of  time 
to  work  (interspersed  with  nourishing  meals) . 

Master  Jervie  is  coming  up  for  a  week  or  so  in 
August,  and  Jimmie  McBride  is  going  to  drop  in  some- 
time through  the  summer.    He's  connected  with  a 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

bond  house  now,  and  goes  about  the  country  selling 
bonds  to  banks.  He's  going  to  combine  the  "Farmers' 
National"  at  the  Corners  and  me  on  the  same  trip. 

You  see  that  Lock  Willow  isn't  entirely  lacking  in 
society.  Fd  be  expecting  to  have  you  come  motoring 
through — only  I  know  now  that  that  is  hopeless. 
When  you  wouldn't  come  to  my  commencement,  I 
tore  you  from  my  heart  and  buried  you  forever. 

Judy  Absott,  A.B. 


[=35] 


July  24th. 
Dearest  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Isn't  it  fun  to  work — or  don't  you  ever  do  it?  It's 
especially  fun  when  your  kind  of  work  is  the  thing 
you'd  rather  do  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
I've  been  writing  as  fast  as  my  pen  would  go  every 
day  this  summer,  and  my  only  quarrel  with  life  is 
that  the  days  aren't  long  enough  to  write  all  the  beau- 
tiful and  valuable  and  entertaining  thoughts  I'm  think- 
ing. 

I've  finished  the  second  draft  of  my  book  and  am 
going  to  begin  the  third  to-morrow  morning  at  half- 
past  seven.  It's  the  sweetest  book  you  ever  saw — it 
is,  truly.  I  think  of  nothing  else.  I  can  barely  wait  in 
the  morning  to  dress  and  eat  before  beginning;  then 
I  write  and  write  and  write  till  suddenly  I'm  so  tired 
that  I'm  limp  all  over.  Then  I  go  out  with  Colin  (the 
new  sheep  dog)  and  romp  through  the  fields  and  get 
a  fresh  supply  of  ideas  for  the  next  day.  It's  the  most 
beautiful  book  you  ever  saw — Oh,  pardon — I  said  that 
before. 

[236] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

You  don't  think  me  conceited,  do  you,  Daddy  dear? 

Fm  not,  really,  only  just  now  Fm  in  the  enthusiastic 
stage.  Maybe  later  on  Fll  get  cold  and  critical  and 
sniffy.  No,  Fm  sure  I  won't!  This  time  Fve  written 
a  real  book.  Just  wait  till  you  see  it. 

Fll  try  for  a  minute  to  talk  about  something  else. 
I  never  told  you,  did  I,  that  Amasai  and  Carrie  got 
married  last  May?  They  are  still  working  here,  but  so 
far  as  I  can  see  it  has  spoiled  them  both.  She  used  just 
to  laugh  when  he  tramped  in  mud  or  dropped  ashes 
on  the  floor,  but  now — ^you  should  hear  her  scold! 
And  she  doesn't  curl  her  hair  any  longer.  Amasai, 
who  used  to  be  so  obliging  about  beating  rugs  and 
carrying  wood,  grumbles  if  you  suggest  such  a  thing. 
Also  his  neckties  are  quite  dingy — black  and  brown, 
where  they  used  to  be  scarlet  and  purple.  Fve  deter- 
mined never  to  marry.  It's  a  deteriorating  process, 
evidently. 

There  isn't  much  of  any  farm  news.  The  animals 
are  all  in  the  best  of  health.  The  pigs  are  unusually 
fat,  the  cows  seem  contented  and  the  hens  are  laying 
well.  Are  you  interested  in  poultry?  If  so,  let  me 
recommend  that  invaluable  little  work,  "200  Eggs  per 
Hen  per  Year."  I  am  thinking  of  starting  an  incubator 
next  spring  and  raising  broilers.  You  see  Fm  settled 
at  Lock  Willow  permanently.  I  have  decided  to  stay 

[257] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

until  Fve  written  1 14  novels  like  Anthony  Trollope's 
mother.  Then  I  shall  have  completed  my  life  work 
and  can  retire  and  travel. 

Mr.  James  McBride  spent  last  Sunday  with  us. 
Fried  chicken  and  ice-cream  for  dinner,  both  of  which 
he  appeared  to  appreciate.  I  was  awfully  glad  to  see 
him;  he  brought  a  momentary  reminder  that  the  world 
at  large  exists.  Poor  Jimmie  is  having  a  hard  time 
peddling  his  bonds.  The  Farmers'  National  at  the 
Corners  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  them  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  they  pay  six  per  cent,  interest 
and  sometimes  seven.  I  think  he'll  end  by  going  home 
to  Worcester  and  taking  a  job  in  his  father's  factory. 
He's  too  open  and  confiding  and  kind-hearted  ever  to 
make  a  successful  financier.  But  to  be  the  manager 
of  a  flourishing  overall  factory  is  a  very  desirable 
position,  don't  you  think?  Just  now  he  turns  up  his 
nose  at  overalls,  but  he'll  come  to  them. 

I  hope  you  appreciate  the  fact  that  this  is  a  long 
letter  from  a  person  with  writer's  cramp.  But  I  still 
love  you,  Daddy  dear,  and  I'm  very  happy.  With 
beautiful  scenery  all  about,  and  lots  to  eat  and  a  com- 
fortable four-post  bed  and  a  ream  of  blank  paper  and 
a  pint  of  ink — ^what  more  does  one  want  in  the  world? 

Yours,  as  always, 

Judy. 

[238] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

P.  S.  The  postman  arrives  with  some  more  news. 
We  are  to  expect  Master  Jervie  on  Friday  next  to 
spend  a  week.  That's  a  very  pleasant  prospect — only 
I  am  afraid  my  poor  book  will  suffer.  Master  Jervie 
is  very  demanding. 


[2^p] 


August  27  th. 
Dear  Daddy-Long-Legs^ 

Where  are  you,  I  wonder? 

I  never  know  what  part  of  the  world  you  are  in, 
but  I  hope  you're  not  in  New  York  during  this  awful 
weather.  I  hope  you're  on  a  mountain  peak  (but  not 
in  Switzerland;  somewhere  nearer)  looking  at  the 
snow  and  thinking  about  me.  Please  be  thinking  about 
me.  I'm  quite  lonely  and  I  want  to  be  thought  about. 
Oh,  Daddy,  I  wish  I  knew  you!  Then  when  we  were 
unhappy  we  could  cheer  each  other  up. 

I  don't  think  I  can  stand  much  more  of  Lock  Wil- 
low. I'm  thinking  of  moving.  Sallie  is  going  to  do 
settlement  work  in  Boston  next  winter.  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  nice  for  me  to  go  with  her,  then  we 
could  have  a  studio  tos^ether?  I  could  write  while  she 
settled  and  we  could  be  together  in  the  evenings. 
Evenings  are  very  long  when  there's  no  one  but  the 
Semples  and  Carrie  and  Amasai  to  talk  to.  I  know 
ahead  of  time  that  you  won't  like  my  studio  idea.  I 
can  read  your  secretary's  letter  now: 

[240] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

''Miss  Jerusha  Abbott. 

"Dear  Madam, 
"Mr.  Smith  prefers  that  you  remain  at  Lock  Wil- 
low. 

"Yours  truly, 
"Elmer  H.  Griggs." 

I  hate  your  secretary.  I  am  certain  that  a  man 
named  Elmer  H.  Griggs  must  be  horrid.  But  truly, 
Daddy,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Boston.  I  can't 
stay  here.  If  something  doesn't  happen  soon,  I  shall 
throw  myself  into  the  silo  pit  out  of  sheer  desperation. 

Mercy!  but  it's  hot.  All  the  grass  is  burnt  up  and 
the  brooks  are  dry  and  the  roads  are  dusty.  It  hasn't 
rained  for  weeks  and  weeks. 

This  letter  sounds  as  though  I  had  hydrophobia, 
but  I  haven't.  I  just  want  some  family. 

Good-by,  my  dearest  Daddy. 

I  wish  I  knew  you. 

Judy. 


[241] 


Lock  Willow, 

September  19th. 
Dear  Daddy, 

Something  has  happened  and  I  need  advice.  I  need 
it  from  you,  and  from  nobody  else  in  the  world. 
Wouldn't  it  be  possible  for  me  to  see  you?  It's  so 
much  easier  to  talk  than  to  write;  and  I'm  afraid  your 
secretary  might  open  the  letter. 

Judy. 

P.  S.   I'm  very  unhappy, 


[242] 


Lock  Willow, 

October  3d. 
Dear  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Your  note  written  in  your  own  hand — and  a  pretty- 
wobbly  hand! — came  this  morning.  I  am  so  sorry  that 
you  have  been  ill;  I  wouldn't  have  bothered  you  with 
my  affairs  if  I  had  known.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  the 
trouble,  but  it's  sort  of  compUcated  to  write,  and  very 
private.  Please  don't  keep  this  letter,  but  bum  it. 

Before  I  begin — here's  a  check  for  one  thousand 
dollars.  It  seems  funny,  doesn't  it,  for  me  to  be  send- 
ing a  check  to  you?   Where  do  you  think  I  got  it? 

I've  sold  my  story.  Daddy.  It's  going  to  be  pub- 
lished serially  in  seven  parts,  and  then  in  a  book!  You 
might  think  I'd  be  wild  with  joy,  but  I'm  not.  I'm 
entirely  apathetic.  Of  course  I'm  glad  to  begin  pay- 
ing you — I  owe  you  over  two  thousand  more.  It's 
coming  in  instalments.  Now  don't  be  horrid,  please, 
about  taking  it,  because  it  makes  me  happy  to  return 
it.  I  owe  you  a  great  deal  more  than  the  mere  money, 

[^43] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  the  rest  I  will  continue  to  pay  all  my  life  in 
gratitude  and  affection. 

And  now,  Daddy,  about  the  other  thing;  please 
give  me  your  most  worldly  advice,  whether  you  think 
I'll  like  it  or  not. 

You  know  that  I've  always  had  a  very  special  feel- 
ing toward  you;  you  sort  of  represented  my  whole 
family;  but  you  won't  mind,  will  you,  if  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  a  very  much  more  special  feeling  for 
another  man?  You  can  probably  guess  without  much 
trouble  who  he  is.  I  suspect  that  my  letters  have  been 
very  full  of  Master  Jervie  for  a  very  long  time. 

I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  what  he  is  like 
and  how  entirely  companionable  we  are.  We  think 
the  same  about  everything — I  am  afraid  I  have  a  tend- 
ency to  make  over  my  ideas  to  match  his!  But  he 
is  almost  always  right;  he  ought  to  be,  you  know,  for 
he  has  fourteen  years'  start  of  me.  In  other  ways, 
though,  he's  just  an  overgrown  boy,  and  he  does  need 
looking  after — he  hasn't  any  sense  about  wearing 
rubbers  when  it  rains.  He  and  I  always  think  the 
same  things  are  funny,  and  that  is  such  a  lot;  it's  dread- 
ful when  two  people's  sense  of  humor  are  antagonistic. 
I  don't  believe  there's  any  bridging  that  gulf! 

And  he  is — Oh,  well!  He  is  just  himself,  and  I  miss 
him,  and  miss  him,  and  miss  him.   The  whole  world 

[^44] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

seems  empty  and  aching.  I  hate  the  moonlight  be- 
cause it's  beautiful  and  he  isn't  here  to  see  it  with 
me.  But  maybe  you've  loved  somebody,  too,  and  you 
know?  If  you  have,  I  don't  need  to  explain;  if  you 
haven't,  I  can't  explain. 

Anyway,  that's  the  way  I  feel — ^and  I've  refused  to 
marry  him. 

I  didn't  tell  him  why;  I  was  just  dumb  and  miser- 
able. I  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say.  And  now 
he  has  gone  away  imagining  that  I  want  to  marry 
Jimmie  McBride — I  don't  in  the  least,  I  wouldn't 
think  of  marrying  Jimmie;  he  isn't  grown  up  enough. 
But  Master  Jervie  and  I  got  into  a  dreadful  muddle 
of  misunderstanding,  and  we  both  hurt  each  other's 
feelings.  The  reason  I  sent  him  away  was  not  because 
I  didn't  care  for  him,  but  because  I  cared  for  him  so 
much.  I  was  afraid  he  would  regret  it  in  the  future — 
and  I  couldn't  stand  that!  It  didn't  seem  right  for  a 
person  of  my  lack  of  antecedents  to  marry  into  any 
such  family  as  his.  I  never  told  him  about  the  orphan 
asylum,  and  I  hated  to  explain  that  I  didn't  know  who 
I  was.  I  may  be  dreadful,  you  know.  And  his  family 
are  proud — and  I'm  proud,  too! 

Also,  I  felt  sort  of  bound  to  you.  After  having  been 
educated  to  be  a  writer,  I  must  at  least  try  to  be  one; 
it  would  scarcely  be  fair  to  accept  your  education 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

and  then  go  off  and  not  use  it.  But  now  that  I  am 
going  to  be  able  to  pay  back  the  money,  I  feel  that 
I  have  partially  discharged  that  debt — ^besides,  I  sup- 
pose I  could  keep  on  being  a  writer  even  if  I  did 
marry.  The  two  professions  are  not  necessarily  exclu- 
sive. 

Fve  been  thinking  very  hard  about  it.  Of  course 
he  is  a  Socialist,  and  he  has  unconventional  ideas; 
maybe  he  wouldn't  mind  marrying  into  the  proletariat 
so  much  as  some  men  might.  Perhaps  when  two  peo- 
ple are  exactly  in  accord,  and  always  happy  when  to- 
gether and  lonely  when  apart,  they  ought  not  to  let 
anything  in  the  world  stand  between  them.  Of  course 
I  want  to  believe  that!  But  I'd  like  to  get  your  un- 
emotional opinion.  You  probably  belong  to  a  Family 
also,  and  will  look  at  it  from  a  worldly  point  of  view 
and  not  just  a  sympathetic  human  point  of  view — so 
you  see  how  brave  I  am  to  lay  it  before  you. 

Suppose  I  go  to  him  and  explain  that  the  trouble 
isn't  Jimmie,  but  is  the  John  Grier  Home — would 
that  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  me  to  do?  It  would  take 
a  great  deal  of  courage.  I'd  almost  rather  be  miserable 
for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

This  happened  nearly  two  months  ago;  I  haven't 
heard  a  word  from  him  since  he  was  here.  I  was  just 
getting  sort  of  acclimated  to  the  feeling  of  a  broken 

[246] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

heart,  when  a  letter  came  from  Julia  that  stirred  me 
all  up  again.  She  said — very  casually — that  "Uncle 
Jervis"  had  been  caught  out  all  night  in  a  storm  when 
he  was  hunting  in  Canada,  and  had  been  ill  ever  since 
with  pneumonia.  And  I  never  knew  it.  I  was  feeling 
hurt  because  he  had  just  disappeared  into  blankness 
without  a  word.  I  think  he's  pretty  unhappy,  and  I 
know  I  am! 
What  seems  to  you  the  right  thing  for  me  to  do? 

Judy. 


[^47] 


October  6th. 
Dearest  Daddy -Long-Legs, 

Yes,  certainly  I'll  come — at  half-past  four  next 
Wednesday  afternoon.  Of  course  I  can  find  the  way. 
I've  been  in  New  York  three  times  and  am  not  quite 
a  baby.  I  can't  believe  that  I  am  really  going  to  see 
you — I've  been  just  thinking  you  so  long  that  it  hardly 
seems  as  though  you  are  a  tangible  flesh-and-blood 
person. 

You  are  awfully  good,  Daddy,  to  bother  yourself 
with  me,  when  you're  not  strong.  Take  care  and  don't 
catch  cold.  These  fall  rains  are  very  damp. 

Affectionately, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  I've  just  had  an  awful  thought.  Have  you  a 
butler?  I'm  afraid  of  butlers,  and  if  one  opens  the  door 
I  shall  faint  upon  the  step.  What  can  I  say  to  him? 
You  didn't  tell  me  your  name.  Shall  I  ask  for  Mr. 
Smith? 

[248] 


Thursday  Morning. 

My   very   dearest  Master-] ervie-Daddy -Long-Legs- 
Pendleton-Smitby 

Did  you  sleep  last  night?  I  didn't.  Not  a  single 
wink.  I  was  too  amazed  and  excited  and  bewildered 
and  happy.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  shall  sleep  again — 
or  eat  either.  But  I  hope  you  slept;  you  must,  you 
know,  because  then  you  will  get  well  faster  and  can 
come  to  me. 

Dear  Man,  I  can't  bear  to  think  how  ill  you've  been 
— and  all  the  time  I  never  knew  it.  When  the  doctor 
came  down  yesterday  to  put  me  in  the  cab,  he  told 
me  that  for  three  days  they  gave  you  up.  Oh,  dearest, 
if  that  had  happened,  the  light  would  have  gone  out 
of  the  world  for  me.  I  suppose  that  some  day — in  the 
far  future — one  of  us  must  leave  the  other;  but  at 
least  we  shall  have  had  our  happiness  and  there  will 
be  memories  to  live  with. 

I  meant  to  cheer  you  up — and  instead  I  have  to 
cheer  myself.  For  in  spite  of  being  happier  than  I 
ever  dreamed  I  could  be,  I'm  also  soberer.   The  fear 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

that  something  may  happen  to  you  rests  like  a  shadow 
on  my  heart.  Always  before  I  could  be  frivolous  and 
care-free  and  unconcerned,  because  I  had  nothing 
precious  to  lose.  But  now — I  shall  have  a  Great  Big 
Worry  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  Whenever  you  are 
away  from  me  I  shall  be  thinking  of  all  the  auto- 
mobiles that  can  run  over  you,  or  the  sign-boards  that 
can  fall  on  your  head  or  the  dreadful,  squirmy  germs 
that  you  may  be  swallowing.  My  peace  of  mind  is 
gone  forever — but  anyway,  I  never  cared  much  for 
just  plain  peace. 

Please  get  well — fast — fast — fast.  I  want  to  have 
you  close  by  where  I  can  touch  you  and  make  sure 
you  are  tangible.  Such  a  little  half  hour  we  had  to- 
gether! I'm  afraid  maybe  I  dreamed  it.  If  I  were  only 
a  member  of  your  family  (a  very  distant  fourth 
cousin)  then  I  could  come  and  visit  you  every  day, 
and  read  aloud  and  plump  up  your  pillow  and  smooth 
out  those  two  little  wrinkles  in  your  forehead  and 
make  the  comers  of  your  mouth  turn  up  in  a  nice 
cheerful  smile.  But  you  are  cheerful  again,  aren't 
you?  You  were  yesterday  before  I  left.  The  doctor 
said  I  must  be  a  good  nurse,  that  you  looked  ten  years 
younger.  I  hope  that  being  in  love  doesn't  make  every 
one  ten  years  younger.  Will  you  still  care  for  me, 
darling,  if  I  turn  out  to  be  only  eleven? 

[2^0] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

Yesterday  was  the  most  wonderful  day  that  could 
ever  happen.  If  I  live  to  be  ninety-nine  I  shall  never 
forget  the  tiniest  detail.  The  girl  that  left  Lock  Wil- 
low at  dawn  was  a  very  different  person  from  the  one 
who  came  back  at  night.  Mrs.  Semple  called  me  at 
half -past  four.  I  started  wide  awake  in  the  darkness 
and  the  first  thought  that  popped  into  my  head  was, 
"I  am  going  to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs!"  I  ate  break- 
fast in  the  kitchen  by  candle-light,  and  then  drove  the 
five  miles  to  the  station  through  the  most  glorious 
October  coloring.  The  sun  came  up  on  the  way,  and 
the  swamp  maples  and  dogwood  glowed  crimson  and 
orange  and  the  stone  walls  and  cornfields  sparkled 
with  hoar  frost;  the  air  was  keen  and  clear  and  full  of 
promise.  I  knew  something  was  going  to  happen. 
All  the  way  in  the  train  the  rails  kept  singing,  "You're 
going  to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs."  It  made  me  feel 
secure.  I  had  such  faith  in  Daddy's  ability  to  set  things 
right.  And  I  knew  that  somewhere  another  man — 
dearer  than  Daddy — ^was  wanting  to  see  me,  and 
somehow  I  had  a  feeling  that  before  the  journey  ended 
I  should  meet  him,  too.  And  you  see! 

When  I  came  to  the  house  on  Madison  Avenue  it 
looked  so  big  and  brown  and  forbidding  that  I  didn't 
dare  go  in,  so  I  walked  around  the  block  to  get  up  my 
courage.   But  I  needn't  have  been  a  bit  afraid;  your 

[^5 1] 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

butler  is  such  a  nice,  fatherly  old  man  that  he  made  me 
feel  at  home  at  once.  "Is  this  Miss  Abbott?"  he  said  to 
me,  and  I  said,  "Yes,"  so  I  didn't  have  to  ask  for  Mr. 
Smith  after  all.  He  told  me  to  wait  in  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  a  very  somber,  magnificent,  man's  sort 
of  room.  I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  big  upholstered 
chair  and  kept  saying  to  myself: 

"I'm  going  to  see  Daddy-Long-Legs!  I'm  going  to 
see  Daddy-Long-Legs!" 

Then  presently  the  man  came  back  and  asked  me 
please  to  step  up  to  the  library.  I  was  so  excited  that 
really  and  truly  my  feet  would  hardly  take  me  up. 
Outside  the  door  he  turned  and  whispered,  "He's  been 
very  ill.  Miss.  This  is  the  first  day  he's  been  allowed  to 
sit  up.  You'll  not  stay  long  enough  to  excite  him?"  I 
knew  from  the  way  he  said  it  that  he  loved  you — ^and 
I  think  he's  an  old  dear! 

Then  he  knocked  and  said,  "Miss  Abbott,"  and  I 
went  in  and  the  door  closed  behind  me. 

It  was  so  dim  coming  in  from  the  brightly  lighted 
hall  that  for  a  moment  I  could  scarcely  make  out  any- 
thing; then  I  saw  a  big  easy  chair  before  the  fire  and 
a  shining  tea  table  with  a  smaller  chair  beside  it.  And 
I  realized  that  a  man  was  sitting  in  the  big  chair 
propped  up  by  pillows  with  a  rug  over  his  knees.  Be- 
fore I  could  stop  him  he  rose — sort  of  shakily — and 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

steadied  himself  by  the  back  of  the  chair  and  just 
looked  at  me  without  a  word.  And  then — and  then — 
I  saw  it  was  you!  But  even  with  that  I  didn't  under- 
stand. I  thought  Daddy  had  had  you  come  there  to 
meet  me  for  a  surprise. 

Then  you  laughed  and  held  out  your  hand  and  said, 
"Dear  little  Judy,  couldn't  you  guess  that  I  was 
Daddy-Long-Legs? " 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  over  me.  Oh,  but  I  have  been 
stupid!  A  hundred  little  things  might  have  told  me,  if 
I  had  had  any  wits.  I  wouldn't  make  a  very  good  de- 
tective, would  I,  Daddy? — ^Jervie?  What  must  I  call 
you?  Just  plain  Jervie  sounds  disrespectful  and  I  can't 
be  disrespectful  to  you! 

It  was  a  very  sweet  half  hour  before  your  doctor 
came  and  sent  me  away.  I  was  so  dazed  when  I  got  to 
the  station  that  I  almost  took  a  train  for  St.  Louis.  And 
you  were  pretty  dazed,  too.  You  forgot  to  give  me 
any  tea.  But  we're  both  very,  very  happy,  aren't  we? 
I  drove  back  to  Lock  Willow  in  the  dark — but  oh, 
how  the  stars  were  shining!  And  this  morning  I've 
been  out  with  Colin  visiting  all  the  places  that  you  and 
I  went  to  together,  and  remembering  what  you  said 
and  how  you  looked.  The  woods  to-day  are  bur- 
nished bronze  and  the  air  is  full  of  frost.  It's  climbing 
weather.  I  wish  you  were  here  to  climb  the  hills  with 


DADDY-LONG-LEGS 

me.  I  am  missing  you  dreadfully,  Jervie  dear,  but  it's 
a  happy  kind  of  missing:  we'll  be  together  soon.  We 
belong  to  each  other  now  really  and  truly,  no  make- 
believe.  Doesn't  it  seem  queer  for  me  to  belong  to 
some  one  at  last?  It  seems  very,  very  sweet. 

And  I  shall  never  let  you  be  sorry  for  a  single 
instant. 

Yours,  forever  and  ever, 

Judy. 

P.  S.  This  is  the  first  love  letter  I  ever  wrote.  Isn't 
it  funny  that  I  know  how.^ 


[^54] 


Seventeen 

By  BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

No  ONE  but  the  creator  of  PENROD 
could  have  conceived  and  portrayed  so 
intimately  and  inimitably  the  love-lorn 
Willie  Baxter  and  the  shining  Lola  Prat  I, 
to  say  nothing  of  Jane,  —  the  immortal 
Jane,  Venjant  terrible,  —  and  Genesis, 
owner  and  sometime  master  of  the  dog 
Clematis. 

Beyond  question  the  funniest  book  of 
our  generation.  Its  humor  is  irresistible, 
at  times  overwhelming,  to  all  but  the 
luckless  William,  to  whom  it  seems  tragic 
rnost  of  the  time. 

A  book  to  be  read  aloud  in  the  bosom 
of  your  family  because  it  is  too  good  to 
be  unshared  by  others;  full  of  chuckles, 
and  reminiscent  of  the  many  ecstatic  and 
despairing  moments  we  have  all  known 
when  we  were  Seventeen. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP     Publishers 
New  York  10.  N.  Y. 


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these  famous  copyright  titles  are  now  available  in  the  Thrushwood 
series  at  only  $1.00  each. 

BAMBI Felix  Salten 

BOB,  SON  OF  BATTLE ,    .     ,     .     .  Alfred  Ollivant 

THE  SECRET  GARDEN Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

PETER  AND  WENDY J.  M.  Barrie 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM     ....  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

UNDERSTOOD  BETSY Dorothy  Canfield 

HEIDI  GROWS  UP Charles  Tritten 

HEIDI'S  CHILDREN Charles  Tritten 

UNCLE  REMUS:  HIS  SONGS  AND  HIS  SAYINGS    Joel  Chandler  Harris 

BAMBI'S  CHILDREN Felix  Salten 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD Jack  London 

WHITE  FANG Jack  London 

DADDY  LONG  LEGS Jean  Webster 

SEVENTEEN       Booth  Tarkington 

PENROD Booth  Tarkington 

PENROD  JASHBER Booth  Tarkington 

PENROD  AND  SAM       . Booth  Tarkington 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  GRIZZLY  ....  Ernest  Thompson  Seton 
THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  COME  .  .  .  John  Fox,  Jr. 
BEAUTIFUL  JOE Marshall  Saunders 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP    I  -^^X  Publishers    New  York  10,  N.Y.