But Percy, now, is an open-minded, confiding young man. He has just been making a dinner-call (he is very punctilious in all social matters), and our entire conversation was devoted to the girl in Detroit. He is lonely and likes to talk about her; and the wonderful things he says! I hope that Miss Detroit is worthy of all this fine affection, but I’m afraid. He fetched out a leather case from the innermost recesses of his waistcoat and, reverently unwrapping two layers of tissue-paper, showed me the photograph of a silly little thing, all eyes and ear-rings and fuzzy hair. I did my best to appear congratulatory, by my heart shut up out of pity for the poor boy’s future.
Isn’t it funny how the nicest men often choose the worst wives, and the nicest women the worst husbands? Their very niceness, I suppose, makes them blind and unsuspicious.
You know, the most interesting pursuit in the world is studying character. I believe I was meant to be a novelist; people fascinate me—until I know them thoroughly. Percy and the doctor form a most engaging contrast. You always know at any moment what that nice young man is thinking about; he is written like a primer in big type and one-syllable words. But the doctor! He might as well be written in Chinese so far as legibility goes. You have heard of people with a dual nature; well, Sandy possesses a triple one. Usually he’s scientific and as hard as granite, but occasionally I suspect him of being quite a sentimental person underneath his official casing. For days at a time he will be patient and kind and helpful, and I begin to like him; then without any warning an untamed wild man swells up from the innermost depths, and—oh, dear! the creature’s impossible.
I always suspect that sometime in the past he has suffered a terrible hurt, and that he is still brooding over the memory of it. All the time he is talking you have the uncomfortable feeling that in the far back corners of his mind he is thinking something else. But this may be merely my romantic interpretation of an uncommonly bad temper. In any case, he’s baffling.
We have been waiting for a week for a fine windy afternoon, and this is it. My children are enjoying “kite-day,” a leaf taken from Japan. All of the big-enough boys and most of the girls are spread over “Knowltop” (that high, rocky sheep-pasture which joins us on the east) flying kites made by themselves.
I had a dreadful time coaxing the crusty old gentleman who owns the estate into granting permission. He doesn’t like orphans, he says, and if he once lets them get a start in his grounds, the place will be infested with them forever. You would think, to hear him talk, that orphans were a pernicious kind of beetle.
But after half an hour’s persuasive talking on my part, he grudgingly made us free of his sheep-pasture for two hours, provided we didn’t step foot into the cow-pasture over the lane, and came home promptly when our time was up. To insure the sanctity of his cow-pasture, Mr. Knowltop has sent his gardener and chauffeur and two grooms to patrol its boundaries while the flying is on. The children are still at it, and are having a wonderful adventure racing over that windy height and getting tangled up in one another’s strings. When they come panting back they are to have a surprise in the shape of ginger cookies and lemonade.
These pitiful little youngsters with their old faces! It’s a difficult task to make them young, but I believe I’m accomplishing it. And it really is fun to feel you’re doing something positive for the good of the world. If I don’t fight hard against it, you’ll be accomplishing your purpose of turning me into a useful person. The social excitements of Worcester almost seem tame before the engrossing interest of 113 live, warm, wriggling little orphans.
Yours with love,
SALLIE.
P.S. I believe, to be accurate, that it’s 107 children I possess this afternoon.
Dear Judy:
This being Sunday and a beautiful blossoming day, with a warm wind blowing, I sat at my window with the “Hygiene of the Nervous System” (Sandy’s latest contribution to my mental needs) open in my lap, and my eyes on the prospect without. “Thank Heaven!” thought I, “that this institution was so commandingly placed that at least we can look out over the cast-iron wall which shuts us in.”
I was feeling very cooped-up and imprisoned and like an orphan myself; so I decided that my own nervous system required fresh air and exercise and adventure. Straight before me ran that white ribbon of road that dips into the valley and up over the hills on the other side. Ever since I came I have longed to follow it to the top and find out what lies beyond those hills. Poor Judy! I dare say that very same longing enveloped your childhood. If any one of my little chicks ever stands by the window and looks across the valley to the hills and asks, “What’s over there?” I shall telephone for a motor-car.
But to-day my chicks were all piously engaged with their little souls, I the only wanderer at heart. I changed my silken Sunday gown for homespun, planning meanwhile a means to get to the top of those hills.
Then I went to the telephone and brazenly called up 505.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. McGurk,” said I, very sweet. “May I be speaking with Dr. MacRae?”
“Howld the wire,” said she, very short.
“Afternoon, Doctor,” said I to him. “Have ye, by chance, any dying patients who live on the top o’ the hills beyant?”
“I have not, thank the Lord!”
“’Tis a pity,” said I, disappointed. “And what are ye afther doin’ with yerself the day?”
“I am reading the ‘Origin of Species.’”
“Shut it up; it’s not fit for Sunday. And tell me now, is yer moter-car iled and ready to go?”
“It is at your disposal. Are you wanting me to take some orphans for a ride?”
“Just one who’s sufferin’ from a nervous system. She’s taken a fixed idea that she must get to the top o’ the hills.”
“My car is a grand climber. In fifteen minutes—”
“Wait!” said I. “Bring with ye a frying-pan that’s a decent size for two. There’s nothing in my kitchen smaller than a cart-wheel. And ask Mrs. McGurk can ye stay out for supper.”
So I packed in a basket a jar of bacon and some eggs and muffins and ginger cookies, with hot coffee in the thermos-bottle, and was waiting on the steps when Sandy chugged up with his automobile and frying-pan.
We really had a beautiful adventure, and he enjoyed the sensation of running away exactly as much as I. Not once did I let him mention insanity. I made him look at the wide stretches of meadow and the lines of pollard willows backed by billowing hills, and sniff the air, and listen to the cawing crows and the tinkle of cow-bells and the gurgling of the river. And we talked—oh, about a million things far removed from our asylum. I made him throw away the idea that he is a scientist, and pretend to be a boy. You will scarcely credit the assertion, but he succeeded—more or less. He did pull off one or two really boyish pranks. Sandy is not yet out of his thirties, and, mercy! that is too early to be grown up.
We camped on a bluff overlooking our view, gathered some driftwood, built a fire, and cooked the nicest supper—a sprinkling of burnt stick in our fried eggs, but charcoal’s healthy. Then, when Sandy had finished his pipe and “the sun was setting in its wonted west,” we packed up and coasted back home.
He says it was the nicest afternoon he has had in years, and, poor deluded man of science, I actually believe it’s true. His olive-green home is so uncomfortable and dreary and uninspiring that I don’t wonder he drowns his troubles in books. Just as soon as I can find a nice comfortable house-mother to put in charge, I am going to plot for the dismissal of Maggie McGurk, though I foresee that she will be even harder than Sterry to pry from her moorings.
Please don’t draw the conclusion that I am becoming unduly interested in our bad-tempered doctor, for I’m not. It’s just that he leads such a comfortless life that I sometimes long to pat him on the head and tell him to cheer up; the world’s full of sunshine, and some of it’s for him—just as I long to comfort my hundred and seven orphans; so much and no more.
I am sure that I had some real new
s to tell you, but it has completely gone out of my head. The rush of fresh air has made me sleepy. It’s half-past nine, and I bid you good night.
S.
P.S. Gordon Hallock has evaporated into thin air. Not a word for three weeks; no candy or stuffed animals or tokimentoes of any description. What on earth do you suppose has become of that attentive young man?
July 13.
Dearest Judy:
Hark to the glad tidings!
This being the thirty-first day of Punch’s month, I telephoned to his two patronesses, as nominated in the bond, to arrange for his return. I was met by an indignant refusal. Give up their sweet little volcano just as they are getting it trained not to belch forth fire? They are outraged that I can make such an ungrateful request. Punch has accepted their invitation to spend the summer.
The dressmaking is still going on; you should hear the machines whir and the tongues clatter in the sewing-room. Our most cowed, apathetic, spiritless little orphan cheers up and takes an interest in life when she hears that she is to possess three perfectly private dresses of her own, and each a different color, chosen by herself. And you should see how it encourages their sewing ability; even the little ten-year-olds are bursting into seamstresses. I wish I could devise an equally effective way to make them take an interest in cooking. But our kitchen is extremely uneducative; you know how hampering it is to one’s enthusiasm to have to prepare a bushel of potatoes at once.
I think you’ve heard me mention that fact that I should like to divide up my kiddies into ten nice little families, with a nice comfortable house-mother over each? If we just had ten picturesque cottages to put them in, with flowers in the front yard and rabbits and kittens and puppies and chickens in the back, we should be a perfectly presentable institution, and wouldn’t be ashamed to have these charity experts come visiting us.
Thursday.
I started this letter three days ago, was interrupted to talk to a potential philanthropist (fifty tickets to the circus), and have not had time to pick up my pen since. Betsy has been in Philadelphia for three days, being a bridesmaid for a miserable cousin. I hope that no more of her family are thinking of getting married, for it’s most upsetting to the J. G. H.
While there, she investigated a family who had applied for a child. Of course we haven’t a proper investigating plant, but once in a while, when a family drops right into our arms, we do like to put the business through. As a usual thing, we work with the State Charities’ Aid Association. They have a lot of trained agents traveling about the State, keeping in touch with families who are willing to take children, and with asylums that have them to give. Since they are willing to work for us, there is no slightest use in our going to the expense of peddling our own babies. And I do want to place out as many as are available, for I firmly believe that a private home is the best thing for the child, provided, of course, that we are very fussy about the character of the homes we choose. I don’t require rich foster-parents, but I do require kind, loving, intelligent parents. This time I think Betsy has landed a gem of a family. The child is not yet delivered or the papers signed, and of course there is always danger that they may give a sudden flop, and splash back into the water.
Ask Jervis if he ever heard of J. F. Bretland of Philadelphia. He seems to move in financial circles. The first I ever heard of him was a letter addressed to the “Supt. John Grier Home, Dear Sir,”—a curt, typewritten, businesslike letter, from an awfully businesslike lawyer, saying that his wife had determined to adopt a baby girl of attractive appearance and good health between the ages of two and three years. The child must be an orphan of American stock, with unimpeachable heredity, and no relatives to interfere. Could I furnish one as required and oblige, yours truly, J. F. Bretland?
By way of reference he mentioned “Bradstreets.” Did you ever hear of anything so funny? You would think he was opening a charge-account at a nursery, and enclosing an order from our seed catalogue.
We began our usual investigation by mailing a reference-blank to a clergyman in Germantown, where the J. F. B.’s reside.
Does he own any property?
Does he pay his bills?
Is he kind to animals?
Does he attend church?
Does he quarrel with his wife? And a dozen other impertinent questions.
We evidently picked a clergyman with a sense of humor. Instead of answering in laborious detail, he wrote up and down and across the sheet, “I wish they’d adopt me!”
This looked promising, so B. Kindred obligingly dashed out to Germantown as soon as the wedding breakfast was over. She is developing the most phenomenal detective instinct. In the course of a social call she can absorb from the chairs and tables a family’s entire moral history.
She returned from Germantown bursting with enthusiastic details.
Mr. J. F. Bretland is a wealthy and influential citizen, cordially loved by his friends and deeply hated by his enemies (discharged employees, who do not hesitate to say that he is a har-rd man). He is a little shaky in his attendance at church, but his wife seems regular, and he gives money.
She is a charming, kindly, cultivated gentlewoman, just out of a sanatorium after a year of nervous prostration. The doctor says that what she needs is some strong interest in life, and advises adopting a child. She has always longed to do it, but her hard husband has stubbornly refused. But finally, as always, it is the gentle, persistent wife who has triumphed, and hard husband has been forced to give in. Waiving his own natural preference for a boy, he wrote, as above, the usual request for a blue-eyed girl.
Mrs. Bretland, with the firm intention of taking a child, has been reading up for years, and there is no detail of infant dietetics that she does not know. She has a sunny nursery, with a southwestern exposure, all ready. And a closet full of surreptitiously gathered dolls! She has made the clothes for them herself, —she showed them to Betsy with a greatest pride,—so you can understand the necessity for a girl.
She has just heard of an excellent English trained nurse that she can secure, but she isn’t sure but that it would be better to start with a French nurse, so that the child can learn the language before her vocal cords are set. Also, she was extremely interested when she heard that Betsy was a college woman. She couldn’t make up her mind whether to send the baby to college or not. What was Betsy’s honest opinion? If the child were Betsy’s own daughter, would Betsy send her to college?
All this would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic; but really I can’t get away from the picture of that poor lonely woman sewing those doll-clothes for the little unknown girl that she wasn’t sure she could have. She lost her own two babies years ago, or, rather, she never had them; they were never alive.
You can see what a good home it’s going to be. There’s lots of love waiting for the little mite, and that is better than all the wealth which, in this case, goes along.
But the problem now is to find the child, and that isn’t easy; the J. F. Bretlands are so abominably explicit in their requirements. I have just the baby boy to give them; but with that closetful of dolls, he is impossible. Little Florence won’t do—one tenacious parent living. I’ve a wide variety of foreigners with liquid brown eyes—won’t do at all. Mrs. Bretland is a blonde, and daughter must resemble her. I have several sweet little mites with unspeakable heredity, but the Bretlands want six generations of church-attending grandparents, with a colonial governor at the top. Also I have a darling little curly-headed girl (and curls are getting rarer and rarer), but illegitimate. And that seems to be an unsurmountable barrier in the eyes of adopting parents, though, as a matter of fact, it makes no slightest difference in the child. However, she won’t do; the Bretlands hold out sternly for a marriage-certificate.
There remains just one child out of all these one hundred and seven that appears available. Our little Sophie’s father and mother were killed in a rail-road accident, and the only reason she wasn’t killed was because they had just left her in a hospital t
o get an abscess cut out of her throat. She comes from good common American stock, irreproachable and uninteresting in every way. She’s a washed-out, spiritless, whiney little thing. The doctor has been pouring her full of his favorite cod-liver oil and spinach, but he can’t get any cheerfulness into her.
However, individual love and care does accomplish wonders in institution children, and she may bloom into something rare and beautiful after a few months’ transplanting. So I yesterday wrote a glowing account of her immaculate family history to J. F. Bretland, offering to deliver her in Germantown.
This morning I received a telegram from J. F. B. Not at all! He does not purpose to buy any daughter sight unseen. He will come and inspect the child in person at three o’clock on Wednesday next.
Oh dear, if he shouldn’t like her! We are now bending all our energies toward enhancing that child’s beauty—like a pup bound for the dog show. Do you think it would be awfully immoral if I rouged her cheeks a suspicion? She is too young to pick up the habit.
Heavens! what a letter! A million pages written without a break. You can see where my heart is. I’m as excited over little Sophie’s settling in life as though she were my own darling daughter.
Respectful regards to the president.
SAL. MCB.
Dear Gordon:
That was an obnoxious, beastly, low-down trick not to send me a cheering line for four weeks just because, in a period of abnormal stress, I once let you go for three. I had really begun to be worried for fear you’d tumbled into the Potomac. My chicks would miss you dreadfully; they love their Uncle Gordon. Please remember that you promised to send them a donkey.