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.

10th September
Dear Daddy,

He has gone, and we are missing him!  When you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation.  I’m finding Mrs. Semple’s conversation pretty unseasoned food.

College opens in two weeks and I shall be glad to begin work again.  I have worked quite a lot this summer though—­six short stories and seven poems.  Those I sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude.  But I don’t mind.  It’s good practice.  Master Jervie read them—­he brought in the post, so I couldn’t help his knowing—­and he said they were dreadful.  They showed that I didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was talking about.  (Master Jervie doesn’t let politeness interfere with truth.) But the last one I did—­just a little sketch laid in college—­ he said wasn’t bad; and he had it typewritten, and I sent it to a magazine.  They’ve had it two weeks; maybe they’re thinking it over.