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 carrying blue and gold japanese umbrellas,

and the juniors white and yellow banners. our class had crimson balloons--

very fetching, especially as they were always 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 downs 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 moriarty (patrici really.

did you ever hear such a name? mrs. lippett couldn't have done better)

who is tall and thin was julia's wife in a absurd green bonnet

over one ear. waves of laughter followed them the whole length

of the course. julia played the part extremely well. i never

dreamed that a pendleton could display so much comedy spirit--

begging master jervie' pardon; i don't consider him a true

pendleton though, an 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 sallie won the pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches)

and i won the fifty-yard sprint (eight seconds).

i was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the

whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling:

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 professional. 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 chocolate ice-cream moulded in the shape of basket balls.

i sat up half of last night reading jane 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 churchyard.

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 understood exactly how she felt. having known mrs. lippett,

i could see mr. brocklehurst.

don't be outraged, daddy. i am not intimating that the john grier

home was like the lowood institute. 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 absolutely 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 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 understanding. 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 am going to be the

head of! it's my favourite 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 sometimes 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 childhood to look back upon. and if i ever

have any children 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).

thursday

when i came in from laboratory this afternoon, i found a squirrel

sitting on the tea table helping himself to almonds. these are

the kind of callers we entertain now that warm weather has come

and the windows stay open--

saturday morning

perhaps you think, last night being friday, with no classes today,

that i passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of stevenson

that i bought with my prize money? but if so, you've 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 bien bored!

goodbye, nice mr. man,

judy

mr. daddy-long-legs smith,

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-writing. it contains all necessary facts,

but no unnecessary verbiage.

i. we had written examinations this week in:

a. chemistry.

b. history.

ii. a new dormitory is being built.

a. its material is:

(a) red brick.

(b) grey 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 tonight.

iv. i am writing a special topic upon the sources of shakespeare's plays.

v. lou mcmahon slipped and fell this afternoon at basket ball,

and she:

a. dislocated her shoulder.

b. bruised her knee.

vi. i have a new hat trimmed with:

a. blue velvet ribbon.

b. two blue quills.

c. three red pompoms.

vii. it is half past nine.

viii. good night.

judy