Dear Enemy — Section 10
P.
S.
There is one thing in the midst of all my troubles that I have to be grateful for: the Hon. Cy has been stricken with a lingering attack of grippe.
In a burst of thankfulness I sent him a bunch of violets.
P.
S.
2. We are having an epidemic of pinkeye.
May 16. Good morning, my dear Judy!
Three days of sunshine, and the J. G.
H.
is smiling.
I am getting my immediate troubles nicely settled.
Those beastly blankets have dried at last, and our camps have been made livable again.
They are floored with wooden slats and roofed with tar paper.
(Mr. Witherspoon calls them chicken coops.
) We are digging a stone-lined ditch to convey any further cloudbursts from the plateau on which they stand to the cornfield below.
The Indians have resumed savage life, and their chief is back at his post.
The doctor and I have been giving Loretta Higgins's nerves our most careful consideration.
We think that this barrack life, with its constant movement and stir, is too exciting, and we have decided that the best plan will be to board her out in a private family, where she will receive a great deal of individual attention.
The doctor, with his usual resourcefulness, has produced the family.
They live next door to him and are very nice people; I have just returned from calling.
The husband is foreman of the casting room at the iron works, and the wife is a comfortable soul who shakes all over when she laughs.
They live mostly in their kitchen in order to keep the parlor neat; but it is such a cheerful kitchen that I should like to live in it myself.
She has potted begonias in the window and a nice purry tiger cat asleep on a braided rug in front of the stove.
She bakes on Saturday--cookies and gingerbread and doughnuts.
I am planning to pay my weekly call upon Loretta every Saturday morning at eleven o'clock.
Apparently I made as favorable an impression on Mrs. Wilson as she made on me.
After I had gone, she confided to the doctor that she liked me because I was just as common as she was.
Loretta is to learn housework and have a little garden of her own, and particularly play out of doors in the sunshine.
She is to go to bed early and be fed up on nice nourishing food, and they are to pet her and make her happy.
All this for three dollars a week!
Why not find a hundred such families, and board out all the children?
Then this building could be turned into an idiot asylum, and I, not knowing anything about idiots, could conscientiously resign and go back home and live happily ever after.
Really, Judy, I am growing frightened.
This asylum will get me if I stay long enough.
I am becoming so interested in it that I can't think or talk or dream of anything else.
You and Jervis have blasted all my prospects in life.
Suppose I should retire and marry and have a family.
As families go nowadays, I couldn't hope for more than five or six children at the most, and all with the same heredity.
But, mercy!
such a family appears perfectly insignificant and monotonous.
You have institutionalized me.
Reproachfully yours, SALLIE McBRIDE.
P.
S.
We have a child here whose father was lynched.
Isn't that a piquant detail to have in one's history?
Tuesday.
Dearest Judy: What shall we do?
Mamie Prout does not like prunes.
This antipathy to a cheap and healthful foodstuff is nothing but imagination, and ought not to be countenanced among the inmates of a well-managed institution.
Mamie must be made to like prunes.
So says our grammar teacher, who spends the noonday hour with us and overlooks the morals of our charges.
About one o'clock today she marched Mamie to my office charged with the offense of refusing, ABSOLUTELY refusing, to open her mouth and put in a prune.
The child was plumped down on a stool to await punishment from me.
Now, as you know, I do not like bananas, and I should hate awfully to be forced to swallow them; so, by the same token, why should I force Mamie Prout to swallow prunes?
While I was pondering a course that would seem to uphold Miss Keller's authority, but would at the same time leave a loophole for Mamie, I was called to the telephone.
"Sit there until I come back," I said, and went out and closed the door.
The message was from a kind lady wishing to motor me to a committee meeting.
I didn't tell you that I am organizing local interest in our behalf.
The idle rich who possess estates in this neighborhood are beginning to drift out from town, and I am laying my plans to catch them before they are deflected by too many garden parties and tennis tournaments.
They have never been of the slightest use to this asylum, and I think it's about time they woke up to a realization of our presence.
Returning at teatime, I was waylaid in the hall by Dr. MacRae, who demanded some statistics from my office.
I opened the door, and there sat Mamie Prout exactly where she had been left four hours before.
"Mamie darling!"
I cried in horror.
"You haven't been here all this time?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Mamie; "you told me to wait until you came back."
That poor patient little thing was fairly swaying with weariness, but she never uttered a whimper.
I will say for Sandy that he was SWEET.
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her to my library, and petted her and caressed her back to smiles.
Jane brought the sewing table and spread it before the fire, and while the doctor and I had tea, Mamie had her supper.
I suppose, according to the theory of some educators, now, when she was thoroughly worn out and hungry, would have been the psychological moment to ply her with prunes.
But you will be pleased to hear that I did nothing of the sort, and that the doctor for once upheld my unscientific principles.
Mamie had the most wonderful supper of her life, embellished with strawberry jam from my private jar and peppermints from Sandy's pocket.
We returned her to her mates happy and comforted, but still possessing that regrettable distaste for prunes.
Did you ever know anything more appalling than this soul-crushing unreasoning obedience which Mrs. Lippett so insistently fostered?
It's the orphan asylum attitude toward life, and somehow I must crush it out.
Initiative, responsibility, curiosity, inventiveness, fight--oh dear!
I
wish the doctor had a serum for injecting all these useful virtues into an orphan's circulation.
LATER.
I wish you'd come back to New York.
I've appointed you press agent for this institution, and we need some of your floweriest writing immediately.
There are seven tots here crying to be adopted, and it's your business to advertise them.
Little Gertrude is cross-eyed, but dear and affectionate and generous.
Can't you write her up so persuasively that some loving family will be willing to take her even if she isn't beautiful?
Her eyes can be operated on when she's older; but if it were a cross disposition she had, no surgeon in the world could remove that.
The child knows there is something missing, though she has never seen a live parent in her life.
She holds up her arms persuasively to every person who passes.
Put in all the pathos you are capable of, and see if you can't fetch her a mother and father.
Maybe you can get one of the New York papers to run a Sunday feature article about a lot of different children.
I'll send some photographs.
You remember what a lot of responses that "Smiling Joe" picture brought for the Sea Breeze people?
I can furnish equally taking portraits of Laughing Lou and Gurgling Gertrude and Kicking Karl if you will just add the literary touch.
And do find me some sports who are not afraid of heredity.
This wanting every child to come from one of the first families of Virginia is getting tiresome.
Yours, as usual, SALLIE.
Friday.
My dear, dear Judy: Such an upheaval!
I've discharged the cook and the housekeeper, and in delicate language conveyed the impression to our grammar teacher that she needn't come back next year.
But, oh, if I could only discharge the Honorable Cy!
I must tell you what happened this morning.
Our trustee, who has had a dangerous illness, is now dangerously well again, and dropped in to pay a neighborly call.
Punch was occupying a rug on my library floor, virtuously engaged with building blocks.
I am separating him from the other kindergarten children, and trying the Montessori method of a private rug and no nervous distraction.
I was flattering myself that it was working well; his vocabulary of late has become almost prudish.
After half an hour's desultory visit, the Hon. Cy rose to go.
As the door closed behind him (I am at least thankful the child waited for that), Punch raised his appealing brown eyes to mine and murmured, with a confiding smile: "Gee!
ain't he got de hell of a mug?"
If you know a kind Christian family where I can place out a sweet little five-year boy, please communicate at once with S.
McBRIDE, Sup't John Grier Home.
Dear Pendletons: I've never known anything like you two snails.
You've only just reached Washington, and I have had my suitcase packed for days, ready to spend a rejuvenating week end CHEZ VOUS.
Please hurry!
I've languished in this asylum atmosphere as long as humanely possible.
I shall gasp and die if I don't get a change.
Yours, on the point of suffocation, S.
McB.
P.
S.
Drop a card to Gordon Hallock, telling him you are there.
He will be charmed to put himself and the Capitol at your disposal.
I know that Jervis doesn't like him, but Jervis ought to get over his baseless prejudices against politicians.
Who knows?
I may be entering politics myself some day.
My dear Judy: We do receive the most amazing presents from our friends and benefactors.
Listen to this.
Last week Mr. Wilton J. Leverett (I quote from his card) ran over a broken bottle outside our gate, and came in to visit the institution while his chauffeur was mending the tire.
Betsy showed him about.
He took an intelligent interest in everything he saw, particularly our new camps.
That is an exhibit which appeals to men.
He ended by removing his coat, and playing baseball with two tribes of Indians.
After an hour and a half he suddenly looked at his watch, begged for a glass of water, and bowed himself off.
We had entirely forgotten the episode until this afternoon, when the expressman drove up to the door with a present for the John Grier Home from the chemical laboratories of Wilton J. Leverett.
It was a barrel--well, anyway, a good sized keg--full of liquid green soap!
Did I tell you that the seeds for our garden came from Washington?
A polite present from Gordon Hallock and the U. S.
Government.
As an example of what the past regime did not accomplish, Martin Schladerwitz, who has spent three years on this pseudo farm, knew no more than to dig a grave two feet deep and bury his lettuce seeds!
Oh, you can't imagine the number of fields in which we need making over;
but of course you, of all people, can imagine.
Little by little I am getting my eyes wide open, and things that just looked funny to me at first, now--oh dear!
It's very disillusionizing.
Every funny thing that comes up seems to have a little tragedy wrapped inside it.
Just at present we are paying anxious attention to our manners--not orphan asylum manners, but dancing school manners.
There is to be nothing Uriah Heepish about our attitude toward the world.
The little girls make curtseys when they shake hands, and the boys remove caps and rise when a lady stands, and push in chairs at the table.
(Tommy Woolsey shot Sadie Kate into her soup yesterday, to the glee of all observers except Sadie, who is an independent young damsel and doesn't care for these useless masculine attentions.
) At first the boys were inclined to jeer, but after observing the politeness of their hero, Percy de Forest Witherspoon, they have come up to the mark like little gentlemen.
Punch is paying a call this morning.
For the last half-hour, while I have been busily scratching away to you, he has been established in the window seat, quietly and undestructively engaged with colored pencils.
Betsy, EN PASSANT, just dropped a kiss upon his nose.
"Aw, gwan!"
said Punch, blushing quite pink, and wiping off the caress with a fine show of masculine indifference.
But I notice he has resumed work upon his red-and-green landscape with heightened ardor and an attempt at whistling.
We'll succeed yet in conquering that young man's temper.
Tuesday.
The doctor is in a very grumbly mood today.
He called just as the children were marching in to dinner, whereupon he marched, too, and sampled their food, and, oh, my dear!
the potatoes were scorched!
And such a clishmaclaver as that man made!
It is the first time the potatoes ever have been scorched, and you know that scorching sometimes happens in the best of families.
But you would think from Sandy's language that the cook had scorched them on purpose, in accordance with my orders.
As I have told you before, I could do very nicely without Sandy.
Wednesday.
Yesterday being a wonderful sunny day, Betsy and I turned our backs upon duty and motored to the very fancy home of some friends of hers, where we had tea in an Italian garden.
Punch and Sadie Kate had been SUCH good children all day that at the last moment we telephoned for permission to include them, too.
"Yes, indeed, do bring the little dears," was the enthusiastic response.
But the choice of Punch and Sadie Kate was a mistake.
We ought to have taken Mamie Prout, who has demonstrated her ability to sit.
I shall spare you the details of our visit; the climax was reached when Punch went goldfishing in the bottom of the swimming pool.
Our host pulled him out by an agitated leg, and the child returned to the asylum swathed in that gentleman's rose-colored bathrobe.
What do you think?
Dr. Robin MacRae, in a contrite mood for having been so intensely disagreeable yesterday, has just invited Betsy and me to take supper in his olive-green house next Sunday evening at seven o'clock in order to look at some microscopic slides.
The entertainment, I believe, is to consist of a scarlet-fever culture, some alcoholic tissue, and a tubercular gland.
These social attentions bore him excessively; but he realizes that if he is to have free scope in applying his theories to the institution he must be a little polite to its superintendent.
I have just read this letter over, and I must admit that it skips lightly from topic to topic.
But though it may not contain news of any great moment, I trust you will realize that its writing has consumed every vacant minute during the last three days.
I am, Most fully occupied, SALLIE McBRIDE.
P.
S.
A blessed woman came this morning and said she would take a child for the summer--one of the sickest, weakest, neediest babies I could give her.
She had just lost her husband, and wanted something HARD to do.
Isn't that really very touching?
Saturday afternoon.
