ow up and get to Sarawak, and
go out on the war-path after head hunters. Every encyclopedia in this
institution has been consulted, and there isn't a boy here who cannot
tell you the history, manners, climate, flora, and fungi of Borneo.
I only wish Mr. Witherspoon would introduce friends who had been head
hunting in England, France, and Germany, countries not quite so CHIC as
Sarawak, but more useful for general culture.

We have a new cook, the fourth since my reign began. I haven't bothered
you with my cooking troubles, but institutions don't escape any
more than families. The last is a negro woman, a big, fat, smiling,
chocolate-colored creature from Souf Ca'lina. And ever since she came
on honey dew we've fed! Her name is--what do you guess? SALLIE, if you
please. I suggested that she change it.

"Sho, Miss, I's had dat name Sallie longer'n you, an' I couldn't get
used nohow to answerin' up pert-like when you sings out `Mollie!' Seems
like Sallie jest b'longs to me."

So "Sallie" she remains; but at least there is no danger of our getting
our letters mixed, for her last name is nothing so plebeian as McBride.
It's Johnston-Washington, with a hyphen.

Sunday.

Our favorite game of late is finding pet names for Sandy. His austere
presence lends itself to caricature. We have just originated a new
batch. The "Laird o' Cockpen" is Percy's choice.

The Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi'
the things of the state.

Miss Snaith disgustedly calls him "that man," and Betsy refers to him
(in his absence) as "Dr. Cod-Liver." My present favorite is "Macphairson
Clon Glocketty Angus McClan." But for real poetic feeling, Sadie Kate
beats us all. She calls him "Mister Someday Soon." I don't believe that
the doctor ever dropped into verse but once in his life, but every child
in this institution knows that one poem by heart.

Someday soon something nice is going to happen;

Be a good little girl and take this hint: Swallow with a smile your
cod-liver ile,

And the first thing you know you will have a peppermint.

It's this evening that Betsy and I attend his supper party, and I
confess that we are looking forward to seeing the interior of his gloomy
mansion with gleeful eagerness. He never talks about himself or his past
or anybody connected with himself. He appears to be an isolated figure
standing on a pedestal labeled S C I E N C E, without a glimmer of any
ordinary affections or