eem true that you, my dear, wonderful Judy, were actually
brought up in this institution, and know from the bitter inside what
these little tots need. Sometimes the tragedy of your childhood fills
me with an anger that makes me want to roll up my sleeves and fight the
whole world and force it into making itself over into a place more fit
for children to live in. That Scotch-Irish ancestry of mine seems to
have deposited a tremendous amount of FIGHT in my character.

If you had started me with a modern asylum, equipped with nice, clean,
hygienic cottages and everything in running order, I couldn't have stood
the monotony of its perfect clockwork. It's the sight of so many things
crying to be done that makes it possible for me to stay. Sometimes, I
must confess, I wake up in the morning and listen to these institution
noises, and sniff this institution air, and long for the happy, carefree
life that by rights is mine.

You my dear witch, cast a spell over me, and I came. But often in
the night watches your spell wears thin, and I start the day with the
burning decision to run away from the John Grier Home. But I postpone
starting until after breakfast. And as I issue into the corridor, one
of these pathetic tots runs to meet me, and shyly slips a warm, crumpled
little fist into my hand, and looks up with wide baby eyes, mutely
asking for a little petting, and I snatch him up and hug him. And then,
as I look over his shoulder at the other forlorn little mites, I long
to take all 113 into my arms and love them into happiness. There is
something hypnotic about this working with children. Struggle as you
may, it gets you in the end.

Your visit seems to have left me in a broadly philosophical frame of
mind; but I really have one or two bits of news that I might convey. The
new frocks are marching along, and, oh, but they are going to be sweet!
Mrs. Livermore was entranced with those parti-colored bales of cotton
cloth you sent,--you should see our workroom, with it all scattered
about,--and when I think of sixty little girls, attired in pink and blue
and yellow and lavender, romping upon our lawn of a sunny day, I feel
that we should have a supply of smoked eye glasses to offer visitors.
Of course you know that some of those brilliant fabrics are going to be
very fadeable and impractical. But Mrs. Livermore is as bad as you--she
doesn't give a hang. She'll make a second and a third set if necessary.
DOWN WITH CHECKED GINGHA