Jo’s Journal

           NewYork,November

           DearMarmeeandBeth,

           I’mgoingtowriteyouaregularvolume,forI’vegotheapstotell,thoughI’mnotafineyoungladytravelingonthecontinent.WhenIlostsightofFather’sdearoldface,Ifeltatrifleblue,andmighthaveshedabrinydroportwo,ifanIrishladywithfoursmallchildren,allcryingmoreorless,hadn’tdivertedmymind,forIamusedmyselfbydroppinggingerbreadnutsovertheseateverytimetheyopenedtheirmouthstoroar.

           Soonthesuncameout,andtakingitasagoodomen,Icleareduplikewiseandenjoyedmyjourneywithallmyheart.

           Mrs.KirkewelcomedmesokindlyIfeltathomeatonce,eveninthatbighousefullofstrangers.Shegavemeafunnylittleskyparlor—allshehad,butthereisastoveinit,andanicetableinasunnywindow,soIcansithereandwritewheneverIlike.Afineviewandachurchtoweroppositeatoneforthemanystairs,andItookafancytomydenonthespot.Thenursery,whereIamtoteachandsew,isapleasantroomnextMrs.Kirke’sprivateparlor,andthetwolittlegirlsareprettychildren,ratherspoiled,Ifancy,buttheytooktomeaftertellingthemTheSevenBadPigs,andI’venodoubtIshallmakeamodelgoverness.

           Iamtohavemymealswiththechildren,ifIpreferittothegreattable,andforthepresentIdo,forIambashful,thoughnoonewillbelieveit.

           "Now,mydear,makeyourselfathome,"saidMrs.K.