I don't know what kind of a thing a farm is. I've never been on
one in my life. I've never even looked at one (except from the car
window), but I know I'm going to love it, and I'm going to love
being FREE.

I am not used even yet to being outside the John Grier Home.
Whenever I think of it excited little thrills chase up and down
my back. I feel as though I must run faster and faster and keep
looking over my shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Lippett isn't after
me with her arm stretched out to grab me back.

I don't have to mind any one this summer, do I?

Your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too
far away to do any harm. Mrs. Lippett is dead for ever, so far as I
am concerned, and the Semples aren't expected to overlook my moral
welfare, are they? No, I am sure not. I am entirely grown up. Hooray!

I leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles
and dishes and sofa cushions and books.
Yours ever,
Judy


PS. Here is my physiology exam. Do you think you could have passed?

LOCK WILLOW FARM,
Saturday night
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,