Daddy-Long-Legs & Dear Enemy Read online

  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 quadrangle 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 Julia 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 jolliest time! But he had to run for his train the minute he got back and he barely saw Julia 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.

  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 let me see if I like you. But wouldn’t it be dreadful if I didn’t? However, I know I should.

  Bien! I make you my compliments.

  “Jamais je ne t’oublierai.”32

  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?

  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 I’m going to love it, and I’m going to love being free.

  I am not used even yet to being outside the John Grier Home. Whenever I think of it excited little 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 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 tea-kettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books.

  Yours ever,

  JUDY.

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

  LOCK WILLOW FARM,

  Saturday night.

  Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,

  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 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;33 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 appears to be funny. I suppose it is, because I’ve 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 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—I’m going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel.

  Oh, Daddy, I’m 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 five. 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. I’m 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.

  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 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 fowls. 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 barn 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.

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

  2. Lesbia, after the Lesbia in Catullus.34

  3. Sallie.

  4. Julia—a spotted, nondescript animal.

  5. Judy, after me.

  6. Daddy-Long-Legs. You don’t mind, do you, 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) I 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.

  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 promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so I went off 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.

  We hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the Center to church. It’s a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three Doric columns in front (or maybe Ionic35—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 outside. 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 intact 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 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 conversation.

  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 of his grimy little hands are frequent! Also in a corner of the attic there is a water wheel and a windmill and some bows and arrows. Mrs. Semple talks so constantly 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. I’m 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 disgraceful thing. She got into the orchard Friday evening 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.

  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?

  September 15th.

  Dear Daddy,

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

  Yours ever,

  JUDY.

  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 beginning, 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 unimportant enough to be a foundling.

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

  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 fails, she is going to be elected. Such an atmosphere 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 position to discuss them more definitely next month.

  I am also taking argumentation and logic.

  Also history of the whole world.

  Also plays of William Shakespeare.36

  Also French.

  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 reëlected 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 preparation 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,

  J. ABBOTT.

  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. IST. 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?

  2nd. 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 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. Sallie 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).

  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 compliments,

  Très respectueux.

  Je suis,

  Votre JUDY.

  November 12th.

  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.