have been upset in Europe, and it wouldn’t have made such a commotion at New Moon.
“So, Mistress Sawyer, you are vastly mistaken. Besides, apart from all happenings, the folks here are interesting in themselves. I don’t like every one but I find every one interesting—Miss Matty Small, who is forty and wears outrageous colors—she wore an old-rose dress and a scarlet hat to church all last summer—old Uncle Reuben Bascom, who is so lazy that he held an umbrella over himself all one rainy night in bed, when the roof began to leak, rather than get out and move the bed—Elder McCloskey, who thought it wouldn’t do to say ‘pants’ in a story he was telling about a missionary, at prayer-meeting, so always said politely ‘the clothes of his lower parts’—Amasa Derry, who carried off four prizes at the Exhibition last fall, with vegetables he stole from Ronnie Bascom’s field, while Ronnie didn’t get one prize—Jimmy Joe Belle, who came here from Derry Pond yesterday to get some lumber ‘to beeld a henhouse for my leetle dog’—old Luke Elliott, who is such a systematic fiend that he even draws up a schedule of the year on New Year’s day, and charts down all the days he means to get drunk on—and sticks to it:—they’re all interesting and amusing and delightful.
“There, I’ve proved Mrs. Alec Sawyer to be so completely wrong that I feel quite kindly towards her, even though she did call me a puss.
“Why don’t I like being called a puss, when cats are such nice things? And I like being called pussy.
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“Two weeks ago I sent my very best poem, Wind Song, to a magazine in New York, and today it came back with just a little printed slip saying, ‘We regret we cannot use this contribution.’
“I feel dreadfully. I suppose I can’t really write anything that is any good.
