gardens for
every child over nine. The big potato field is doomed. That is the only
feasible spot for sixty-two private gardens. It is near enough to be
watched from the north windows, and yet far enough away, so that their
messing will not injure our highly prized landscape lawn. Also the earth
is rich, and they have some chance of success. I don't want the poor
little chicks to scratch all summer, and then not turn up any treasure
in the end. In order to furnish an incentive, I shall announce that
the institution will buy their produce and pay in real money, though I
foresee we shall be buried under a mountain of radishes.

I do so want to develop self-reliance and initiative in these children,
two sturdy qualities in which they are conspicuously lacking (with the
exception of Sadie Kate and a few other bad ones). Children who have
spirit enough to be bad I consider very hopeful. It's those who are good
just from inertia that are discouraging.

The last few days have been spent mainly in charming the devil out of
Punch, an interesting task if I could devote my whole time to it.
But with one hundred and seven other little devils to charm away, my
attention is sorely deflected.

The awful thing about this life is that whatever I am doing, the other
things that I am not doing, but ought to be, keep tugging at my skirts.
There is no doubt but Punch's personal devil needs the whole attention
of a whole person,--preferably two persons,--so that they could spell
each other and get some rest.

Sadie Kate has just flown in from the nursery with news of a scarlet
goldfish (Gordon's gift) swallowed by one of our babies. Mercy! the
number of calamities that can occur in an orphan asylum!

9 P.M.

My children are in bed, and I've just had a thought. Wouldn't it be
heavenly if the hibernating system prevailed among the human young?
There would be some pleasure in running an asylum if one could just tuck
the little darlings into bed the first of October and keep them there
until the twenty-second of April.

I'm yours, as ever,

SALLIE.

April 24.

Dear Jervis Pendleton, Esq.:

This is to supplement a night telegram which I sent you ten minutes
ago. Fifty words not being enough to convey any idea of my emotions, I
herewith add a thousand.

As you will know by the time you receive this, I have discharged the
farmer, and he has refused to be discharged. Being twice the size of me,
I can't lug him to the gate and