THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 15.
Dear Judy:

We arrived in a snowstorm at eleven last night, Singapore and
Jane and I. It does not appear to be customary for
superintendents of orphan asylums to bring with them personal
maids and Chinese chows. The night watchman and housekeeper, who
had waited up to receive me, were thrown into an awful flutter.
They had never seen the like of Sing, and thought that I was
introducing a wolf into the fold. I reassured them as to his
dogginess, and the watchman, after studying his black tongue,
ventured a witticism. He wanted to know if I fed him on
huckleberry pie.

It was difficult to find accommodations for my family, Poor
Sing was dragged off whimpering to a strange woodshed, and given
a piece of burlap. Jane did not fare much better. There was not
an extra bed in the building, barring a five-foot crib in the
hospital room. She, as you know, approaches six. We tucked her
in, and she spent the night folded up like a jackknife. She has
limped about today, looking like a decrepit letter S, openly
deploring this latest escapade on the part of her flighty
mistress, and longing for the time when we shall come to our
senses, and return to the parental fireside in Worcester.

I know that she is going to spoil all my chances of being
popular with the rest of the staff. Having her here is the