Dear Enemy [69]
defense. It was a cowardly thing to hurt it wantonly. He told John to try to develop imagination enough to look at things from the other person's point of view, even if the other person was only a mouse. Then he went to the bookcase and took down my copy of Burns, and told the boy what a great poet he was, and how all Scotchmen loved his memory.
"And this is what he wrote about a mouse," said Sandy, turning to the "Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie," which he read and explained to the lad as only a Scotchman could.
Johnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional attention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not go to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would make themselves into a committee to run the asylum.
You know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of ideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week, and think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that when you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside whenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My asylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week from next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall be comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant fancies in my brain.
Meanwhile Master John is in a happily chastened frame of mind and body. And I rather suspect that Sandy's moralizing had the more force because it was preceded by my pancake turner! But one thing I know--Suzanne Estelle is terrified whenever I step into her kitchen. I casually picked up the potato-masher this morning while I was commenting upon last night's over-salty soup, and she ran to cover behind the woodshed door.
Tomorrow at nine I set out on my travels, after preparing the way with five telegrams. And, oh! you can't imagine how I'm looking forward to being a gay, carefree young thing again--to canoeing on the lake and tramping in the woods and dancing at the clubhouse. I was in a state of delirium all night long at the prospect. Really, I hadn't realized how mortally tired I had become of all this asylum scenery.
"What you need," said Sandy to me, "is to get away for a little and sow some wild oats."
That diagnosis was positively clairvoyant. I can't think of anything in the world I'd rather do than sow a few wild oats. I'll come back with fresh energy, ready to welcome you and a busy summer.
As ever,
SALLIE.
P.S. Jimmie and Gordon are both going to be up there. How I wish you could join us! A husband is very discommoding.
CAMP McBRIDE,
July 29. Dear Judy:
This is to tell you that the mountains are higher than usual, the woods greener, and the lake bluer.
People seem late about coming up this year. The Harrimans' camp is the only other one at our end of the lake that is open. The clubhouse is very scantily supplied with dancing men, but we have as house guest an obliging young politician who likes to dance, so I am not discommoded by the general scarcity.
The affairs of the nation and the rearing of orphans are alike delegated to the background while we paddle about among the lily pads of this delectable lake. I look forward with reluctance to 7:56 next Monday morning, when I turn my back on the mountains. The awful thing about a vacation is that the moment it begins your happiness is already clouded by its approaching end.
I hear a voice on the veranda asking if Sallie is to be found within or without.
ADDIO!
S.
August 3. Dear Judy:
Back at the John Grier, reshouldering the burdens of the coming generation. What should meet my eyes upon entering these grounds but John Cobden, of pancake turner memory,
"And this is what he wrote about a mouse," said Sandy, turning to the "Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie," which he read and explained to the lad as only a Scotchman could.
Johnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional attention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not go to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would make themselves into a committee to run the asylum.
You know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of ideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week, and think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that when you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside whenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My asylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week from next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall be comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant fancies in my brain.
Meanwhile Master John is in a happily chastened frame of mind and body. And I rather suspect that Sandy's moralizing had the more force because it was preceded by my pancake turner! But one thing I know--Suzanne Estelle is terrified whenever I step into her kitchen. I casually picked up the potato-masher this morning while I was commenting upon last night's over-salty soup, and she ran to cover behind the woodshed door.
Tomorrow at nine I set out on my travels, after preparing the way with five telegrams. And, oh! you can't imagine how I'm looking forward to being a gay, carefree young thing again--to canoeing on the lake and tramping in the woods and dancing at the clubhouse. I was in a state of delirium all night long at the prospect. Really, I hadn't realized how mortally tired I had become of all this asylum scenery.
"What you need," said Sandy to me, "is to get away for a little and sow some wild oats."
That diagnosis was positively clairvoyant. I can't think of anything in the world I'd rather do than sow a few wild oats. I'll come back with fresh energy, ready to welcome you and a busy summer.
As ever,
SALLIE.
P.S. Jimmie and Gordon are both going to be up there. How I wish you could join us! A husband is very discommoding.
CAMP McBRIDE,
July 29. Dear Judy:
This is to tell you that the mountains are higher than usual, the woods greener, and the lake bluer.
People seem late about coming up this year. The Harrimans' camp is the only other one at our end of the lake that is open. The clubhouse is very scantily supplied with dancing men, but we have as house guest an obliging young politician who likes to dance, so I am not discommoded by the general scarcity.
The affairs of the nation and the rearing of orphans are alike delegated to the background while we paddle about among the lily pads of this delectable lake. I look forward with reluctance to 7:56 next Monday morning, when I turn my back on the mountains. The awful thing about a vacation is that the moment it begins your happiness is already clouded by its approaching end.
I hear a voice on the veranda asking if Sallie is to be found within or without.
ADDIO!
S.
August 3. Dear Judy:
Back at the John Grier, reshouldering the burdens of the coming generation. What should meet my eyes upon entering these grounds but John Cobden, of pancake turner memory,