The Annals of Ann

and she keeps a diary, which put the

es and single ones. The single ones fill theirs full of poe

pattern to keep mine by, but I was disappointed. Nearly every page I turned to in hers was filled full of poetry, which st

raduating in white mull, trimmed in lace, as some girls do, for the really famous never graduate. They get expelled from college for writing little books saying there ain't any devil. But I should love to be a beautiful opera singer, with a jasmine flower at my throat, and a fr

catch cold in my voice, or cramps in the sea and never get famous; but I'm going to keep this diary anyhow, and

en your attic is such a very delicious place? Ours is high enough not to bump your head, even if you are as tall as my friend, Rufe Clayborne, and where a part of the window-pane is broken out an apple-tree sends in a perky little branch. Just before Easter every year I spend nearly all my time up here at this window, for the apple blo

for he is my best friend and the grandest young man I've ever seen out of a book. His other name is Rufe, and he's an editor when he's in the city. But before he got to be an editor he was born across the creek from ou

and tell them as quickly as I can, for I never did think just my own self was so interesting. If they have any imagination they can tell pretty

have her any age you like best. Maybe if I were to tell exactly how many birthdays I've had you would always be saying, like mother and Mammy Lou, "You're a mighty big girl to be doing such silly things." Or like Rufe says sometimes,

nd The Alhambra under the other, with eight or ten apples in my lap, and climb up in the loft to enjoy the greatest pleasure of my life. I sling The Alhambra up on the hay first, then ease t

t things are that way when they're told to me. One day at Sunday-school, when I was about four, the teacher was telling about Jonah. Mother often told me tales, some that I called "make-believe," and others that I called

I can't see nor smell nor feel. An old man out in the mountains that had never been anywhere might say he didn't believe in elec

ay with so many people around here, they have more ancestry than anything else. Still, we have perfectly lovely smellin

blood in your veins, but you mustn't let yours get too blue. Father says it take

e walls of the house are a soft grayish white, like a dear old grandmother's hair; and the mycravella roses in the far corner of the yard put such notions into your head! There are rows of c

e says so many people spoil their houses by selecting carpets and wall-paper that look like they want t

ants everybody to have a good time, and no matter whether you're a man, a young lady, or a little girl, she lets you scatter your pipes, love-letters and doll-rags from the front gate to the backest chicken-coop without ever fussing. Mother admires company greatly. She doesn't have to perspire over them herself,

ry, so I take pleasure in starting in on Bertha. Bertha, she is a cat! Even Rufe called h

gagement is where the girl wears the man's fraternity pin instead of a ring. And when she came again this time it didn't ta

same time, when one is with one girl and the other to another! And it was so plain that the eyes of the potatoes could see it! But Bertha hadn't an idea of giving up anybody as good-looking as Rufe to anoth

uld go into each other's rooms at night and brush their hair, half undressed, and have as good a time as the pictures of ladies in underwear catalogues always seem to be having. But they are not at all friendly. They have never even asked each other what make of corsets they wear, nor who operated

it down at last! And Cousin Eunice doesn't have just a plain parlor at home to receive her beaux in; she has a studio. A studio is a room full of things that catch dust. And the desire of her life is to write a little brown-backed book that people will fill full of pencil marks and

inside the more she will stick on the outside of her head, and lots of men can't tell the difference. Bertha certainly isn't at a loss for lovers. She gets a great many letters from a "commercial traveler." A "commercial traveler" is a man who wri

tchen and tell Mammy Lou all the news I've seen or heard that day. She

all. "Why, a camel can dance a Virginny reel in the eye of a needle quicker than a gal can sick a

h I think is the meanest way on earth to treat a person. Not that Bertha doesn't deserve it, for she knew they were just joking about that summer engagement, but she still

he atmosphere, but this morning a way was provided, and I greatl

on my way to the big pear tree which I meant to climb and write in my book I saw that Mammy Lou was having the time of her life telling Cousin Eunice all about when Rufe was a baby. She had called her in ther

pping for another glassful. "There never was nary finer

usin Eunice said,

ldn't think of even one word that would be of interest to my grandchildren. So I just wrote my name over and over again on the fly-pages. I wonder what makes them ca

ont steps. "I'm so glad to see you. Everything is so draggy this morning.

look in the direction of Cousin Eunice's window. "And my visits always

I told him what a hard time I'd had trying to think up something interesting to write in my diary. He said, looking again toward Cousin Eunice's window, that there was only one

ng to look surprised.

idn't hear it. So, without saying anything to him, I leaned over far enough to look under the banisters, and saw the bottom of Bertha's skirt and a skein of blue sil

so Bertha would just have to hear me, "what

from the blue hills and just sta

that I should have to answ

him, and he looked worse surprised. "And since I've heard her

n I was that night; so I might state that sometimes you di

to go in and see who it was. And I decided to disappear around the corner of the house. I didn't altogether disappear before I heard her say indeed he had meant to call her a cat; and he said indeed he hadn't, but she hadn't been "square" with him, and they talked and talked until I got uneasy that Cousin Eunice would be comin

ry little in that line going on around here lately. Poor Rufe is having a harder time now than he had when Bertha was on his hands, for Cousin Eunice ha

t up late the night before to make them. And when she's expecting him at night her eyes shine like they had been greased; and I can tell from the way she breathes quick when she hears the gate open that she loves him. Yes, she adores the sound of his rubber heels on the front porch; but

time before going down-stairs and trying to keep us from seeing that she was listening for a footstep on the gravel walk. "An' a husban's got to be treated jus' like a love

elped the plates to chicken, saving two gizzards for me

omething funny about Cousin Eunice and Rufe, for mother always stops him on this subject whenever she can, because she doesn't want Bertha's feelings hurt. But Bertha never seems to mind.

ng else. "Now in my young days when a girl and a fellow looked good to each other they usually got engaged at once. But now-jumping Jerusalem! No matter how deeply in love they are they w

n time to hush, for I've never been able to mention Lord Byron's name to my family in any peace since they found

ocks of hair, as they used to when Mary and I were young, they give each other limp-backed books th

dmires a healthy-looking girl. I know a young man who had been going to see a girl for a long time and never did propose. She was a pretty girl, too, slender and wild-rosy-looking. Well, she took a trip to Germany one summer and d

even to fresh milk and raw eggs. I hope I can get married without the raw eggs part of it.

ould be along pretty soon for us to go down to the ravine and read poetry. They always take me along because

as labeled "Keats" this morning. Cousin Eunice didn't have a book. She carried a

stage and the orchestra begins The Flower Song. The way they looked at each other made under my scalp tingle. Now, if I ever have a granddaughter that doesn't have this fee

, there was something in the atmosphere around that old gray rock that made me feel as if I were treading on sacred ground. (I hate to use expressions like this, that everybody else uses, but I can't think of anything else and it's getting too late to sit here by myself and try.) Any

s jabbing holes in the sand with her parasol like she was being paid to do it b

in the sand wi

ain, "Sweetheart." She looked up at him when he said it, and looked and looked! Maybe she never had realized before just how big and broad-shouldered and brown-eyed Rufe really is! Neither one of them said anything, but h