During our week of rain I sat up in the attic and had an orgy of reading—­Stevenson, mostly.  He himself is more entertaining than any of the characters in his books; I dare say he made himself into the kind of hero that would look well in print.  Don’t you think it was perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the South Seas?  He lived up to his adventurous creed.  If my father had left me ten thousand dollars, I’d do it, too.  The thought of Vailima makes me wild.  I want to see the tropics.  I want to see the whole world.  I am going to be a great author, or artist, or actress, or playwright—­ or whatever sort of a great person I turn out to be.  I have a terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella and start. `I shall see before I die the palms and temples of the South.’

Thursday evening at twilight,
sitting on the doorstep.

Very hard to get any news into this letter!  Judy is becoming so philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of daily life.  But if you must have news, here it is: 

Our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last Tuesday, and only eight came back.  We don’t want to accuse anyone unjustly, but we suspect that Widow Dowd has one more than she ought to have.

Mr. Weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin yellow—­ a very ugly colour, but he says it will wear.

The Brewers have company this week; Mrs. Brewer’s sister and two nieces from Ohio.

One of our Rhode Island Reds only brought off three chicks out of fifteen eggs.  We can’t imagine what was the trouble.  Rhode island Reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed.  I prefer Buff Orpingtons.

The new clerk in the post office at Bonnyrigg Four Corners drank every drop of Jamaica ginger they had in stock—­seven dollars’ worth—­before he was discovered.

Old Ira Hatch has rheumatism and can’t work any more; he never saved his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on the town.

There’s to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next
Saturday evening.  Come and bring your families.

I have a new hat that I bought for twenty-five cents at the post office. 
This is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay.

It’s getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up. 
                               Good night,
                                               Judy

Friday

Good morning!  Here is some news!  What do you think?  You’d never, never, never guess who’s coming to Lock Willow.  A letter to Mrs. Semple from Mr. Pendleton.  He’s motoring through the Berkshires, and is tired and wants to rest on a nice quiet farm—­if he climbs out at her doorstep some night will she have a room ready for him?  Maybe he’ll stay one week, or maybe two, or maybe three; he’ll see how restful it is when he gets here.