me! what have I written? Oh, Elsie, pray excuse those horizontal evidences of my forgetfulness and disobedience. I have bumped my head against the table three times, as penance, and will now try to turn my thoughts into right channels. This letter is a black-and-white evidence that I have not a frivolous order of mind, and have always been misunderstood from my birth up to this date.)
We have had beautiful weather since—but no, of course Phil will tell you about the weather, for that is scarcely an amusing topic. I do want to be as prudent as possible, for Uncle Doc is going to read all the letters (not, of course, aloud) and see whether we have fulfilled our specific obligations.
(I just asked Bell whether ‘specific’ had a ‘c’ or an’s in the middle, and she answered ‘“c,” of course,’ with such an air, you should have heard her! I had to remind her of the time she spelled ‘Tophet’ with an ‘f’ in the middle; then she subsided.)
(I just read this last paragraph to Madge, to see if she called it gossip, as I was going to take it out if it belonged to her topic, but she said No, she didn’t call it gossip at all—that she should call it slander!)
You don’t know how we all long to see you, dear darling that you are. We live in the hope of having you with us very soon, and meanwhile the beautiful bedstead is almost finished, and a perfect success. (I wish to withdraw the last three quarters of that sentence, for obvious reasons!!)
Dear, dear! Geoffrey calls ‘Time up,’ and I’ve scarcely said anything I should. Never, never again will I submit to this method of correspondence; it is absolutely petrifying to one’s genius. When I am once forced to walk in a path, nothing but the whole out-of-doors will satisfy me.
I’m very much afraid I haven’t amused you, dear,—
But when I lie in the green kirkyard,
With the mould upon my breast,
Say not that ‘She did well or ill,’
Only, ‘She did her best.’
Now, do you think that will interfere with Bell, when it’s only a quotation? Any way, it’s so appropriate that Uncle Doc will never have the heart to strike it out. The trouble is that Geoff thinks all the poetry in the universe is locked up in Bell’s head, and if she once allows it to escape, Felicia Hemans and the rest will be too discouraged ever to try again! (I can’t remember whether F. H. is alive or not, and am afraid to ask, but you will know that I don’t mean to be disrespectful.)
Laura, Anne, and Scott Burton were here for the play, and Laura is coming down again to spend the week. I can’t abide her, and there will probably be trouble in the camp.
The flame of my genius blazes high just now, but Geoff has spoken, and it must be snuffed. So good-bye!
Sizz-z-z!! and I’m out!
Pollioliver.
II. From Philip to Elsie
Camp Chaparral, July 8, 188–.
My dear Elsie,—I believe I am to inform you concerning the daily doings of our party, not on any account, however, permitting myself to degenerate into ‘gossip’ or ‘frivolous amusement.’
They evidently consider me a quiet, stupid fellow, who will fulfil such a task with no special feeling of repression, and I dare say they are quite right.
They call me the ‘solid man’ of the camp, which may not be very high praise, to be sure, as Geoffrey carries his head in the clouds, and Jack is—well, Jack is Jack! So, as the light of a tallow dip is valuable in the absence of sun and moon, I am raised to a fictitious reputation.
We fellows have had very little play so far, for the furnishing of the camp has proved an immense undertaking, although we have plenty of the right sort of wood and excellent tools.
We think the work will pay, however, as Dr. Paul has about decided to stay until October, or until the first rain. He writes two or three hours a day, and thinks that he gets on with his book better here than at home. As for the rest of us, when we get fairly to rights we shall have regular study hours and lose no time in preparing for the examinations.
I suppose you know that you have a full bedroom set in process of construction. I say ‘suppose you know,’ because it is a profound secret, and the girls could never have kept it to themselves as long as this.
The lounging-chair is my allotted portion, and although it is a complicated bit of work, I accepted it gladly, feeling sure that you would use it oftener than any of the other pieces of furniture. I shall make it so deliciously easy that you will make me ‘Knight of the Chair,’ and perhaps permit me to play a sort of devoted John Brown to your Victoria. You will need one dull and prosy squire to arrange your pillows, so that you can laugh at Jack’s jokes without weariness, and doze quietly while Geoff and Uncle Doc are talking medicine.
Of course the most exciting event of the week was the mysterious disappearance and subsequent restoration of the Heir-Apparent; but I feel sure somebody else will describe the event, because it is uppermost in all our minds.
Bell, for instance, would dress it up in fine style. She is no historian, but in poetry and fiction none of us can touch her; though, by the way, Polly’s abilities in that direction are a good deal underrated. It’s as good as a play to get her after Jack when he is in one of his teasing moods. They are like flint and steel, and if Aunt Truth didn’t separate them the sparks would fly. With a girl like Polly, you have either to lie awake nights, thinking how you’ll get the better of her, or else put on a demeanour of gentleness and patience, which serves as a sort of lightning-rod round which the fire of her fun will play all day and never strike. Polly is a good deal of a girl. She seems at first to have a pretty sharp tongue, but I tell you she has a heart in which there is swimming-room for everybody. This may not be ‘information’ to you, whom we look upon as our clairvoyant, but it would be news to most people.
Uncle Doc, Bell, Geoff, Polly, Meg, and I started for the top of Pico Negro the other morning. Bell rode Villikins, and Polly took a mule, because she thought the animal would be especially sure-footed. He was; in fact, he was so sure-footed that he didn’t care to move at all, and we had to take turns in beating him up to the top. We boys walked for exercise, which we got to our hearts’ content.
It is only five or six miles from the old Mountain Mill (a picture of which Jack will send you), and the ascent is pretty stiff climbing, though nothing terrific. We lost the trail once, and floundered about in the chaparral for half an hour, till Bell began to make a poem on the occasion, when we became desperate, and dashed through a thicket of brush, tearing ourselves to bits, but stumbling on the trail at last. The view from the top is simply superb. The valleys below are all yellow with grain-fields and green with vineyards, with here and there the roofs of a straggling little settlement. The depression in the side of the mountain (you will observe it in the picture) Polly says has evidently been ‘bitten out’ by a prehistoric animal, and it turns out to be the loveliest little cañon imaginable.
We have had one novel experience—that of seeing a tarantula fight; and not between two, but five, tarantulas. We were about twenty miles from camp, loping along a stretch of hot, dusty road. Jack got off to cinch his saddle, and so we all stopped a moment to let our horses breathe. As I was looking about, at
