well, daddy, master jervie's here. and such a nice time as

we're having! at least i am, and i think he is, too--he has been

here ten days and he doesn't show any signs of going. the way

mrs. semple pampers that man is scandalous. if she indulged him

as much when he was a baby, i don't know how he ever turned out so well.

he and i eat at a little table set on the side porch, or sometimes

under the trees, or--when it rains or is cold--in the best parlour.

he just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and carrie trots

after him with the table. then if it has been an awful nuisance,

and she has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar

under the sugar bowl.

he is an awfully companionable sort of man, though you would never

believe it to see him casually; he looks at first glance like a

true pendleton, but he isn't in the least. he is just as simple

and unaffected and sweet as he can be--that seems a funny way

to describe a man, but it's true. he's extremely nice with the

farmers around here; he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion

that disarms them immediately. they were very suspicious at first.

they didn't care for his clothes! and i will say that his clothes

are rather amazing. he wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets

and white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers.

whenever he comes down in anything new, mrs. semple, beaming with pride,

walks around and views him from every angle, and urges him to be careful

where he sits down; she is so afraid he will pick up some dust.

it bores him dreadfully. he's always saying to her:

`run along, lizzie, and tend to your work. you can't boss me

any longer. i've grown up.'

it's awfully funny to think of that great big, long-legged man (he's

nearly as long-legged as you, daddy) ever sitting in mrs. semple's lap

and having his face washed. particularly funny when you see her lap!

she has two laps now, and three chins. but he says that once she

was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he.

such a lot of adventures we're having! we've explored the country

for miles, and i've learned to fish with funny little flies made

of feathers. also to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. also to

ride horseback--there's an astonishing amount of life in old grove.

we fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost

ran away with me.

wednesday

we climbed sky hill monday afternoon. that's a mountain near here;

not an awfully high mountain, perhaps--no snow on the summit--but at

least you are pretty breathless when you reach the top. the lower slopes

are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and open moor.

we stayed up for the sunset and built a fire and cooked our supper.

master jervie did the cooking; he said he knew how better than me

and he did, too, because he's used to camping. then we came down

by moonlight, and, when we reached the wood trail where it was dark,

by the light of an electric bulb that he had in his pocket.

it was such fun! he laughed and joked all the way and talked

about interesting things. he's read all the books i've ever read,

and a lot of others besides. it's astonishing how many different

things he knows.

we went for a long tramp this morning and got caught in a storm.

our clothes were drenched before we reached home but our spirits not

even damp. you should have seen mrs. semple's face when we dripped

into her kitchen.

`oh, master jervie--miss judy! you are soaked through. dear! dear!

what shall i do? that nice new coat is perfectly ruined.'

she was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten

years old, and she a distracted mother. i was afraid for a while

that we weren't going to get any jam for tea.

saturday

i started this letter ages ago, but i haven't had a second to finish it.

isn't this a nice thought from stevenson?

the world is so full of a number of things,

i am sure we should all be as happy as kings.

it's true, you know. the world is full of happiness, and plenty

to go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes

your way. the whole secret is in being pliable. in the country,

especially, there are such a lot of entertaining things.

i can walk over everybody's land, and look at everybody's view,

and dabble in everybody's brook; and enjoy it just as much

as though i owned the land--and with no taxes to pay!

it's sunday night now, about eleven o'clock,

and i am supposed to be getting some beauty

sleep, but i had black coffee for dinner, so--no beauty sleep for me!

this morning, said mrs. semple to mr. pendleton, with a very

determined accent:

`we have to leave here at a quarter past ten in order to get

to church by eleven.'

`very well, lizzie,' said master jervie, `you have the buggy ready,

and if i'm not dressed, just go on without waiting.' 'we'll wait,'

said she.

`as you please,' said he, `only don't keep the horses standing

too long.'

then while she was dressing, he told carrie to pack up a lunch,

and he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and we slipped

out the back way and went fishing.

it discommoded the household dreadfully, because lock willow of

a sunday dines at two. but he ordered dinner at seven--he orders meals

whenever he chooses; you would think the place were a restaurant--

and that kept carrie and amasai from going driving. but he said it

was all the better because it wasn't proper for them to go driving

without a chaperon; and anyway, he wanted the horses himself to take

me driving. did you ever hear anything so funny?

and poor mrs. semple believes that people who go fishing on sundays go

afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! she is awfully troubled to think

that she didn't train him better when he was small and helpless

and she had the chance. besides--she wished to show him off in church.

anyway, we had our fishing (he caught four little ones) and we cooked

them on a camp-fire for lunch. they kept falling off our spiked

sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them.

we got home at four and went driving at five and had dinner at seven,

and at ten i was sent to bed and here i am, writing to you.

i am getting a little sleepy, though.

good night.

here is a picture of the one fish i caught.

ship ahoy, cap'n long-legs!

avast! belay! yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. guess what i'm reading?

our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical.

isn't treasure island fun? did you ever read it, or wasn't it

written when you were a boy? stevenson only got thirty pounds for

the serial rights--i don't believe it pays to be a great author.

maybe i'll be a school-teacher.

excuse me for filling my letters so full of stevenson; my mind

is very much engaged with him at present. he comprises lock

willow's library.

i've been writing this letter for two weeks, and i think it's

about long enough. never say, daddy, that i don't give details.

i wish you were here, too; we'd all have such a jolly time together.

i like my different friends to know each other. i wanted to ask

mr. pendleton if he knew you in new york--i should think he might;

you must move in about the same exalted social circles, and you are

both interested in reforms and things--but i couldn't, for i don't know

your real name.

it's the silliest thing i ever heard of, not to know your name.

mrs. lippett warned me that you were eccentric. i should think so!

affectionately,

judy

ps. on reading this over, i find that it isn't all stevenson.

there are one or two glancing references to master jervie.