and told the boy what a
great poet he was, and how all Scotchmen loved his memory.

"And this is what he wrote about a mouse," said Sandy, turning to the
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie," which he read and explained
to the lad as only a Scotchman could.

Johnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional
attention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not
go to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would
make themselves into a committee to run the asylum.

You know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of
ideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week,
and think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that
when you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside
whenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My
asylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week
from next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall
be comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant
fancies in my brain.

Meanwhile Master John is in a happily chastened frame of mind and body.
And I rather suspect that Sandy's moralizing had the more force because
it was preceded by my pancake turner! But one thing I know--Suzanne
Estelle is terrified whenever I step into her kitchen. I casually picked
up the potato-masher this morning while I was commenting upon last
night's over-salty soup, and she ran to cover behind the woodshed door.

Tomorrow at nine I set out on my travels, after preparing the way with
five telegrams. And, oh! you can't imagine how I'm looking forward to
being a gay, carefree young thing again--to canoeing on the lake and
tramping in the woods and dancing at the clubhouse. I was in a state of
delirium all night long at the prospect. Really, I hadn't realized how
mortally tired I had become of all this asylum scenery.

"What you need," said Sandy to me, "is to get away for a little and sow
some wild oats."

That diagnosis was positively clairvoyant. I can't think of anything in
the world I'd rather do than sow a few wild oats. I'll come back with
fresh energy, ready to welcome you and a busy summer.

As ever,

SALLIE.

P.S. Jimmie and Gordon are both going to be up there. How I wish you
could join us! A husband is very discommoding.

CAMP McBRIDE,

July 29.

Dear Judy:

This is to tell you that the mountains are h