Daddy Long-Legs

You know, I think I ’ll be a Socialist, too. You would n’t mind, would you, Daddy? They ’re quite different from Anarchists; they don’t believe in blowing people up. Probably I am one by rights; I belong to the proletariat. I have n’t determined yet just which kind I am going to be. I will look into the subject over Sunday, and declare my principles in my next.

I ’ve seen loads of theaters and hotels and beautiful houses. My mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding and mosaic floors and palms. I ’m still pretty breathless but I am glad to get back to college and my books—I believe that I really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm I find more bracing than New York. College is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. We spend a whole evening in nothing but talk—talk—talk—and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. And filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense—just silly jokes about the little things that come up—but very satisfying. We do appreciate our own witticisms!

It is n’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it ’s making a great deal out of the little ones—I ’ve discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in the now. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. It ’s like farming. You can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, I am going to have intensive living after this. I ’m going to enjoy every second, and I ’m going to know I ’m enjoying it while I ’m enjoying it. Most people don’t live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it does n’t make any difference whether they ’ve reached the goal or not. I ’ve decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a Great Author. Did you ever know such a philosopheress as I am developing into?

Yours ever,Judy.

P. S. It ’s raining cats and dogs to-night. Two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill.

Dear Comrade,

Hooray! I ’m a Fabian.

That ’s a Socialist who ’s willing to wait. We don’t want the social revolution to come to-morrow morning; it would be too upsetting. We want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock.

In the meantime we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms.

Yours, with fraternal love,Judy.

Monday, 3d hour.

February 11th.

Dear D. L. L.,

Don’t be insulted because this is so short. It is n’t a letter; it ’s just a line to say that I ’m going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. It is not only necessary that I pass, but pass WELL. I have a scholarship to live up to.

Yours, studying hard,J. A.
March 5th.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

President Cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. He says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavor and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude toward organized authority. We no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors.

I came away from chapel very sober.

Am I too familiar, Daddy? Ought I to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?—Yes, I ’m sure I ought. I ’ll begin again.

…

My dear Mr. Smith,

You will be pleased to hear that I passed successfully my mid-year examinations, and am now commencing work in the new semester. I am leaving chemistry—having completed the course in qualitative analysis—and am entering upon the study of biology. I approach this subject with some hesitation, as I understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs.

An extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon Roman Remains in Southern France. I have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject.

We are reading Wordsworth’s “Tinturn Abbey” in connection with our course in English Literature. What an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conception of Pantheism! The Romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as Shelley, Byron, Keats, and Wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the Classical period that preceded it. Speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of Tennyson’s called “Locksley Hall”?

I am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. A proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. The gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. My room-mate, Miss McBride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and I am about to begin swimming lessons.

We had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. Only vegetable dyes are used in coloring the food. The college is very much opposed, both from esthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes.

The weather of late has been ideal—bright sunshine and clouds interspersed with a few welcome snow-storms. I and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes—particularly from.

Trusting, my dear Mr. Smith, that this will find you in your usual good health,

I remain,Most cordially yours,Jerusha Abbott.
April 24th.

Dear Daddy,

Spring has come again! You should see how lovely the campus is. I think you might come and look at it for yourself. Master Jervie dropped in again last Friday—but he chose a most unpropitious time, for Sallie and Julia and I were just running to catch a train. And where do you think we were going? To Princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! I did n’t ask you if I might go, because I had a feeling that your secretary would say no. But it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and Mrs. McBride chaperoned us. We had a charming time—but I shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated.

Saturday.

Up before dawn! The night watchman called us—six of us—and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of One Tree Hill to see the sun rise. We had to scramble up the last slope! The sun almost beat us! And perhaps you think we did n’t bring back appetites to breakfast!

Dear me, Daddy, I seem to have a very ejaculatory style to-day; this page is peppered with exclamations.

I meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for to-morrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and Catherine Prentiss who has pneumonia, and Prexy’s Angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in Fergussen Hall for two weeks until a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses—white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match—but I am too sleepy. I am always making this an excuse, am I not? But a girl’s college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! Particularly when the day begins at dawn.

Affectionately,Judy.
May 15th.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else?

A very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car to-day, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. It does n’t seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. Anyway, you miss a lot. While she was absorbing that silly sign, I was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings.

The accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. It looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it is n’t at all; it ’s a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium.

The instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. It would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one’s instructor. I ’m always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so I keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest I do not make the progress that I otherwise might.

Very miscellaneous weather we ’re having of late. It was raining when I commenced and now the sun is shining. Sallie and I are going out to play tennis—thereby gaining exemption from Gym.

A week later.

I should have finished this letter long ago, but I did n’t. You don’t mind, do you, Daddy, if I ’m not very regular? I really do love to write to you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. Would you like me to tell you something? You are not the only man to whom I write letters. There are two others! I have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from Master Jervie (with typewritten envelopes so Julia won’t recognize the writing). Did you ever hear anything so shocking? And every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from Princeton. All of which I answer with businesslike promptness. So you see—I am not so different from other girls—I get mail, too.

Did I tell you that I have been elected a member of the Senior Dramatic Club? Very recherché organization. Only seventy-five members out of one thousand. Do you think as a consistent Socialist that I ought to belong?

What do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? I am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the Care of Dependent Children. The Professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me. C’est drôle ça n’est pas?

There goes the gong for dinner. I ’ll mail this as I pass the chute.

Affectionately,J.
June 4th.

Dear Daddy,

Very busy time—commencement in ten days, examinations to-morrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoors world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside.

But never mind, vacation ’s coming. Julia is going abroad this summer—it makes the fourth time. No doubt about it, Daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. Sallie, as usual, goes to the Adirondacks. And what do you think I am going to do? You may have three guesses. Lock Willow? Wrong. The Adirondacks with Sallie? Wrong. (I ’ll never attempt that again; I was discouraged last year.) Can’t you guess anything else? You ’re not very inventive. I ’ll tell you, Daddy, if you ’ll promise not to make a lot of objections. I warn your secretary ahead of time that my mind is made up.

I am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a Mrs. Charles Paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. I met her through the McBrides, and she is a very charming woman. I am to give lessons in English and Latin to the younger daughter, too, but I shall have a little time to myself, and I shall be earning fifty dollars a month! Does n’t that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? She offered it; I should have blushed to ask more than twenty-five.

I finish at Magnolia (that ’s where she lives) the first of September and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at Lock Willow—I should like to see the Semples again and all the friendly animals.

How does my program strike you, Daddy? I am getting quite independent, you see. You have put me on my feet and I think I can almost walk alone by now.

Princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide—which is an awful blow. Sallie and I did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible.

Good-by, Daddy. Have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (That ’s what you ought to be writing to me!) I have n’t an idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. I can’t visualize your surroundings. Do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate?

Anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don’t forget Judy.

June Tenth.

Dear Daddy,

This is the hardest letter I ever wrote, but I have decided what I must do, and there is n’t going to be any turning back. It is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to Europe this summer—for the moment I was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. It would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! You must n’t get me used to too many luxuries. One does n’t miss what one has never had; but it is awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his—hers (English language needs another pronoun) by natural right. Living with Sallie and Julia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. They have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. The World, they think, owes them everything they want. Maybe the World does—in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. But as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. I have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the World will repudiate my claim.

I seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor—but I hope you grasp my meaning? Anyway, I have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself.

…Magnolia,Four days later.

I ’d got just that much written, when—what do you think happened? The maid arrived with Master Jervie’s card. He is going abroad too this summer; not with Julia and her family but entirely by himself. I told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. He knows about you, Daddy. That is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; I simply did n’t have the courage to tell him about the John Grier Home and all the rest. He thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. I have never told him that I did n’t know you—that would seem too queer!

Anyway, he insisted on my going to Europe. He said that it was a necessary part of my education and that I must n’t think of refusing. Also, that he would be in Paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants.

Well, Daddy, it did appeal to me! I almost weakened; if he had n’t been so dictatorial, maybe I should have entirely weakened. I can be enticed step by step, but I won’t be forced. He said I was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me) and that I did n’t know what was good for me; I ought to let older people judge. We almost quarreled—I am not sure but that we entirely did!

In any case, I packed my trunk fast and came up here. I thought I ’d better see my bridges in flames behind me before I finished writing to you. They are entirely reduced to ashes now. Here I am at Cliff Top (the name of Mrs. Paterson’s cottage) with my trunk unpacked and Florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. And it bids fair to be a struggle! She is a most uncommonly spoiled child; I shall have to teach her first how to study—she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water.

We use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom—Mrs. Paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors—and I will say that I find it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! And when I think I might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands—but I won’t let myself think of anything but Latin Grammar.

The prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de, e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative.

So you see, Daddy, I am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. Don’t be cross with me, please, and don’t think that I do not appreciate your kindness, for I do—always—always. The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens? I don’t suppose they are). Anyway, a Very Useful Person. And when you look at me you can say, “I gave that Very Useful Person to the world.”

That sounds well, does n’t it, Daddy? But I don’t wish to mislead you. The feeling often comes over me that I am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability, I shan’t turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. I may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work.

Yours ever,Judy.
August 19th.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

My window looks out on the loveliest landscape—ocean-scape rather—nothing but water and rocks.

The summer goes. I spend the morning with Latin and English and algebra and my two stupid girls. I don’t know how Marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. And as for Florence, she is hopeless—but oh! such a little beauty. I don’t suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? One can’t help thinking though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. I suppose that ’s quite possible; the world seems to be filled with stupid men; I ’ve met a number this summer.

In the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. I can swim in salt water with the utmost ease—you see my education is already being put to use!

A letter comes from Mr. Jervis Pendleton in Paris, rather a short, concise letter; I ’m not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. However, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at Lock Willow before college opens, and if I am very nice and sweet and docile, I shall (I am led to infer) be received into favor again.

Also a letter from Sallie. She wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in September. Must I ask your permission, or have n’t I yet arrived at the place where I can do as I please? Yes, I am sure I have—I ’m a Senior, you know. Having worked all summer, I feel like taking a little healthful recreation; I want to see the Adirondacks; I want to see Sallie; I want to see Sallie’s brother—he ’s going to teach me to canoe—and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) I want Master Jervie to arrive at Lock Willow and find me not there.

I must show him that he can’t dictate to me. No one can dictate to me but you, Daddy—and you can’t always! I ’m off for the woods.

Judy.
Camp McBride,September 6th.

Dear Daddy,

Your letter did n’t come in time (I am pleased to say). If you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. As you observe, I am here, and have been for five days.

The woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the McBrides, and so is the whole world. I ’m very happy!

There ’s Jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. Good-by—sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? When I ’ve worked all summer I deserve two weeks. You are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish.

However—I love you still, Daddy, in spite of all your faults.

Judy.
October 3rd.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Back at college and a Senior—also editor of the Monthly. It does n’t seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!

What do you think of this? A note from Master Jervie directed to Lock Willow and forwarded here. He ’s sorry but he finds that he can’t get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. Hopes I ’ve had a nice summer and am enjoying the country.

And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, for Julia told him so! You men ought to leave intrigue to women; you have n’t a light enough touch.

Julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes—an evening gown of rainbow Liberty crêpe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in Paradise. And I thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. I copied Mrs. Paterson’s wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns did n’t turn out quite twins of the originals, I was entirely happy until Julia unpacked. But now—I live to see Paris!

Dear Daddy, are n’t you glad you ’re not a girl? I suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No doubt about it. But it ’s entirely your fault.

Did you ever hear about the learned Herr Professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt, and favored sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? His wife, who was an obliging creature, adopted “dress reform.” And what do you think he did? He eloped with a chorus girl.

Yours ever,Judy.

P. S. The chamber-maid on our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I look at them.

November 17th.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Such a blight has fallen over my literary career. I don’t know whether to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy—silent sympathy, please; don’t reopen the wound by referring to it in your next letter.

I ’ve been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all summer when I was n’t teaching Latin to my two stupid children. I just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. He kept it two months, and I was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter—but frank! He said he saw from the address that I was still in college, and if I would accept some advice, he would suggest that I put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed his reader’s opinion. Here it is:

“Plot highly improbable. Characterization exaggerated. Conversation unnatural. A good deal of humor but not always in the best of taste. Tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.”

Not on the whole flattering, is it, Daddy? And I thought I was making a notable addition to American literature, I did truly. I was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I collected the material for it while I was at Julia’s last Christmas. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city.

I took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when I came to the gas house, I went in and asked the engineer if I might borrow his furnace. He politely opened the door, and with my own hands I chucked it in. I felt as though I had cremated my only child!

I went to bed last night utterly dejected; I thought I was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. But what do you think? I woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and I ’ve been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as I could be. No one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! If I had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, I ’d bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set.