d problem to the winds I
set myself with a businesslike air to sew together the ragged threads.
A second knock brought me the cheerful tidings that the kitchen fire
had languished from lack of sustenance. Now I had previously in my
most impressive tones commanded one of the elder boys to attend to
this matter, and he had promptly departed, as I thought, to "cleave
the splits." Searching for him I found this industrious youth lying on
his back complacently contemplating the heavens. To my remonstrance he
somewhat indignantly remarked that he was only "taking a spell." A
really magnificent and grandiloquent appeal to the boy's sense of
honour and a homily on the dignity of labour were abruptly terminated
by shrill cries resounding from the house. Rushing in, I was informed
that Noah was "bawling" (which fact was perfectly evident), having
jammed his fingers in trying to "hist" the window. In this country
children never cry; they always "bawl."

I foresee that the life of a Superintendent of an Orphan Asylum is not
a simple one, and that I shall be in no danger of being "carried to
the skies" on a "flowery bed of ease." Certain I am that there will
only be opportunity to write to you at "scattered times"; so for the
present, fare thee well.

_Sunday, August 4_

You see before you, or you would if my very obvious instead of merely
my astral body were in your presence, a changed and sobered being. I
have made the acquaintance of the Labrador fly, and he has made mine.
The affection is all on his side. Mosquito, black fly, sand fly--they
are all alike cannibals. You have probably heard the old story about
the difference between the Labrador and the New Jersey mosquito? The
Labrador species can be readily distinguished by the black patch
between his eyes about the size of a man's hand. Of the lot I prefer
the mosquito. He at least is open about his evil intentions. The black
fly darts at you quietly, settles down on an un-get-at-able spot, and
sucks your blood. If I did not find my appetite so unimpaired, I
should fancy this morning I was suffering from an acute attack of
mumps.

Mumps is at the moment in our midst, and as is generally the case has
fallen on the poorest of the community. In this instance it is a widow
by the name of Kinsey, who has six children, and lives in a miserable
hovel. More of her anon. Her twelve-year-old boy comes to the Home
daily to get milk for the wretched baby, whom we had heard w