The Bamberg herald. [volume] (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, 1922-05-11
JULY FIRST.


school has amounted to much. Really
it hasn't. Oh, for three or four days
he asked questions quite like just q
teacher. Then he got to talking.
Sometimes it would be about some
thing in the lessons; sometimes it
would be about star, or the, moon.
And he'd get so interested that I'd
think for a minute that maybe the un-
derstanding twinkle would come into
his eyes again. But it never did.
Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons,
though, that he talked about. It was
Boston, and Mother. Yes he did. he
talked lot about Mother. As I look
back at it now, can see that he did.
He asked me all over again what she
did, and about the parties, and the
folks that came to see her. He asked
again about Mr.. Harlow, and about
the concert, and the young man who
played the violin, and what was his
name, and how old was he, and did
like him. And then, right in the mid
die Of some question, sr rather, right
in the middle of some answer was
giving him, he would suddenly remem-
Der he was hearing my lessons and
he would say, "Come, come, Mary,
what has this to do with your les
sons7"
Just as If was to blame! (But,
then, we women always get the blame,
I notice.) And then he'd attend strict
ly to the books for maybe five whole
minutes-before he asked another
question about that party, or the vio-
linist.
Naturally the lessons haven't
amounted to much, as you can imagine.
But the term was nearly finished, any
way; and my real school is in Boston,
Of course.
It's vacation now. do hope that
will amount to somethingl
AUGUST FIRST.
It hasn't, 50 far-I mean vacation.
Really, what a world Of disappoint-
ment this Is! How on earth I'm go
ing to stand being Mary for three
months more I don't know. But I've
got to, suppose. I've been here May,
June, and July; and that leaves Au-
gust, September, and October yet to
come. And when I think Of Mother
and Boston and Marie, and the darling
good times down there where you're
really wanted, am simply crazy.
If Father wanted me, really wanted
me, vvculdn't care bit. I'd be will
ing to be Mary six whole months. Yes,
I'd be glad to. But he doesn't. I'm
Just here by order Of the court. And
what can you do when you're moth
ing but daughter by order Of the
court?
Since the lessons have stopped,
Fathers gone back to his "Good-morn-
ing, Mary" and Goodnight" and
nothing else, day in and day out.
Lately he's got so he hangs around
the house an awful lot, too, so I can't
even do the things I did the first OF
the month. I mean that I'd been play
ing some on the piano, along at the
first, after school closed. Aunt Jane
was out in the garden lot, and
Father out to the. observatory, so I
just reveled In pianoplaying till
found almost every time I did 1t that
he had come back, and was In the
library with the door open. so l
don't dare to play now.
And there isn't a blessed thing to
do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and
now have to weed an hour, too;
and Aunt Jane trieu to have me learn
to cook; but Susie Tin the kitchen)
fatty refused to have me messing
around" so Aunt Jane had to give
that up. Susie's the one person Aunt
James afraid of, you see. She always
threatens to leave If anything goes
across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has
to be careful. I heard her tell Mrs.
Small next door that good hired girls
were awfully scarce in AndersonVille.
AS I said before, If only there was
somebody here that wanted me. But
there isn't. OF course Father doesn't.
That goes without saying. And Aunt
Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without
saying. Carrie Haywood has gone
away for all summer, so can't have
even her, and Of course. 1 wouldn't
associate with any of the other girls,
even if they would associate with me
which they won't.
That leaves only Mothers letters.
They are dear, and love them.
don't know what I'd do without them.
And vet, sometimes think maybe
they're worse than If I didn't have
them. They make me so homesick,
and 1 always cry so after get them.
Still, I know / just couldn't live
minute If t wasn't for Mothers let
ters.
Besides being so lonesome there's
another thing that worries me, too;
and that is, this-what I'm writing !
mean. The novel. It's getting awful
ly stupid. Nothing happens. Moth
ing! Of course, If twas just a story